heaven need a sinner
by the-cloud-whisperer
Summary: Book 6 of Avatar Zuko. Our protagonists come to the crossroads of destiny: faced with inordinate losses on many fronts, Zuko, Azula, and Lu Ten seek to rediscover themselves and reaffirm what they set out on their respective journeys to do. Many reunions come to pass as Team Avatar prepares for the last battle against Fire Lord Ozai and the Fire Nation on the day of Sozin's comet.
1. ZUKO, AZULA: let go your earthly tether

**A/N**: My dear friends! This is the final installment in the series, and it is going to be long. At least as long as _blood in the breeze_, probably by a fair bit. I hope to finish it by the time I graduate in 2021, but... we'll see. There will be epilogues to wrap up various threads and capture a little of the future for our dear characters. I don't know about full-blown sequels, though... I've spent a lot of time on this fic, probably too much, and maybe I will want to do other things, who knows. Until then, enjoy the ride :)

Title from "Raise Hell" by Dorothy. This song takes me back to the summer of 2016, which I mostly spent watching Legend of Korra, drinking tea on my AirBnB host's balcony in 99% humidity, and frantically writing applications through tears, so it's quite significant to me, to say the least.

* * *

_9 April. _**HARU**

A hollow dawn sky drenches his vision as he stares emptily out from the doorway of the abandoned home where they crash-landed the glider. It's a humble cottage, but a distant enough refuge from the Northern Air Temple and any pursuers.

Azula hasn't spoken since regaining consciousness, though she responds to his directions when he settles her into sleep on the most hospitable corner of the floor in the unfurnished house. He lets her be, having seen her like this before. When she couldn't earthbend, when they walked through the Eastern Air Temple searching for Zuko in vain. Each time, he'd thought she couldn't fall any farther. But the universe seems determined to push her down time and time again without reprieve. All he can do is extend a hand to pull her up, regardless of whether she accepts it.

He doesn't know exactly what happened, but he can guess. Azula looks so torn-up and listless that he doesn't think she attacked Zuko with the intent to hurt him. Why Zuko would provoke her into striking the first blow is also unknown, but he believes Azula would not have had reason to fight back except in self-defense. They came to the Northern Air Temple to ally with Zuko, after all, and now there's no possibility of that.

He looks at the shallow bowl next to him that's collected a few mouthfuls of water from the early morning showers. There's a chance, however slim, that Zuko survived. He recalls the vial of spirit water he gave to Katara. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn't. Either way, he doesn't want to give Azula false hope when he can't be certain. But the alternative is that Zuko, the Avatar, is dead, killed by his own sister. Nothing now stands between the Fire Lord and the world.

Inside the house, Azula stirs, and he hastens back to her side. Her eyes flutter open reluctantly.

"Azula. Are you okay?" He can only ask about the most superficial aspect of her wellness, knowing that of course, she's not okay at all.

She doesn't reply and sits up instead, every movement sluggish and uninspired. He offers her the bowl of water, which she takes with drugged hands.

"How long did I sleep?" she asks, voice a gritty rasp, courtesy of Aang's heavy-handed retribution.

"Ten hours?" he estimates. It had been late evening when they'd made their escape, and the sun is now an inch from rising.

She drinks, swallows painful and labored, then exhales deeply, weary beyond the fathoms of the earth. "I don't want to talk about it."

She anticipates him well, and he her, so they say nothing.

* * *

**ZUKO **

He wanders in the dark; he does not know time or space. Around him drift the shadows of the unknown, like a hint of death's enthralling kiss.

He tries to ask, "Where am I? How am I here?" but finds himself wondering instead, "_Who _am I?" and "_Why_ am I still here?"

If he is alive, he shouldn't be. If he is dead, he shouldn't be feeling it _still._

That begs the question—how am I feeling? _What _am I feeling? He begins to rediscover these things as he assigns attributes to himself, as hopelessly fundamental as they are.

Empty—so he knows he has a body, to be filled. Adrift—so he knows he belongs to a physical realm, to which he must return. Afraid—so he knows he is alive, to be fearful of death.

He considers this. It's a start.

Presently, he hears a haunting verse echoing through whatever space he occupies, its words unsettlingly familiar.

_Leaves from the vine, falling so slow_

_Like tiny, fragile shells, drifting on the foam_

_Little soldier boy comes marching home_

_Brave soldier boy comes marching home_

"Come home, Zuko," a voice calls, lilting and eerie. "Come home."

He would like to, but he doesn't know how to get there from this place. He hasn't even fully elucidated what this place is.

He finds his voice—that, at least, is easy—and asks, "Where is my home?"

"Where your heart is," comes the immediate answer, but now it turns malicious. "Oh, but your heart is _broken._"

The shadows like fog around him clear a little, and through their phantom hues, he perceives (he doesn't know if he truly _sees_) a dark silhouette, menacing and ominous. It approaches, and he shrinks back, not knowing where he can seek shelter in this empty place.

"Who are you?" In a sense, he feels relieved to hear of another being's presence here. If they are real, then he too is real, though what comfort that should bring him is unclear.

The figure looms, mist rolling off its shape until its outline becomes clear.

"I trust you have been well since the last time you tried to kill me, Avatar?"

_There's a lot to unpack there,_ Zuko thinks, flailing in his efforts to process what passes as a hostile greeting at best. "I'm sorry," he begins, not wanting to appear boorish and discourteous. "What…?"

"It feels like yesterday for me," the being says. Its face, a white mask with a neutral stare, gazes down at him from its perch atop a monstrosity of a body: scorpion-like, but with countless heads and closed off faces, dormant for now.

"Koh," he realizes. "It's you, isn't it?"

"Unlike you," Koh says waspishly, displeased at not being recognized right away, "I don't need to ask if it's you. Who besides the Avatar would so rudely barge into the spirit world and hold a spirit hostage right away? Remind you of anyone?"

_Not this again, _he thinks dully. It seems, however, that this world knows no boundaries between thought and speech. Koh hisses in distaste.

"You say that, Avatar, and yet you do not seem to learn. Your predecessors before you were the same. You call yourself the Great Bridge, but you're really more of a Great Homicidal Invader of the Spirit World, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?" he asks, confused.

"What do I mean? Clearly you Avatars are forgetful, along with murderous. Ten thousand years ago, when you were Hou Yi, you killed nine of the sun spirit's siblings. Then, just two generations ago, the firebender Naoki killed the moon spirit and brought about the fall of the Northern Water Tribe fifty years ago. I took her face in retribution, and Kuruk, your previous life, then tried to kill me.

"Despite knowing all this, you went on to try and control the great sun spirit and bend it to your will. You humans are all the same: selfish and conniving."

He rallies his spirits, trying to counter the damning energy exuded by Koh's fury. It's as if the more argumentative Koh becomes, the more he remembers of what transpired. "Why do you care? Jinwu refused to cooperate with me on a matter that would benefit both humans and spirits. The sun spirit's misguided principles will doom both our worlds."

"I don't care about _your _world, human," Koh snarls. "Extinguish yourself and all other humans, that's no concern of mine. But care to threaten any spirit, and this world will not be wide enough to contain my wrath."

So Koh thinks of himself as some kind of guardian of the spirits. "And if I don't agree?"

"Then I will take the face of someone you love, just as I did with Avatar Kuruk." Koh's body gyrates wildly, and with it, the empty faces lodged on his body like the fruits of a rotting tree. He pauses, and one face comes to the fore: that of a beautiful young woman, long black hair sleekly framing her closed eyes. "Do not approach the sun spirit again, _Great Bridge_. You will come to regret it."

The tree of faces dissolves into the mist, Koh gone as suddenly as he came, and Zuko stares through the obscuring fog, all the more at a loss as to what to do. There is nothing here to show him the way, not a single landmark to guide him. He is alone.

He is alone.

* * *

_11 April. _**IROH**

He gazes down at the figure in the bed, transfixed into another time and place long ago, reliving the same scene over again.

No, it was only in his dreams. He shakes his head self-reprovingly; there was no body to bury when Lu Ten died. The dead were too many to count, and his son rests among that number. Zuko is here before his eyes, though, younger and slighter than Lu Ten was, but laid low by an even heavier burden.

"I don't understand," Aang says. "It's been three days. Why hasn't he woken yet?"

"His spirit is wandering," Iroh murmurs. "The damage he suffered while in the Avatar state was too great. His body and spirit are strangers to each other now."

"It's a miracle that he's even alive at all," Katara says. With studied, tense efficiency, she compounds the various herbs and powders Iroh brought with him, mixing and diluting with water. Zuko will need every bit of the White Lotus' remedies that he can get in order to make a full recovery.

"How do we get him back, then?" Aang asks, a trace of desperation shading his voice. He paces before the foot of the bed, reluctant to stay in one place, as if his stasis will leave him no other choice than to look at Zuko's motionless body.

"By giving his spirit a reason to stay," Iroh says. "You remember your lessons with the guru. You know what is necessary to release your earthly tether, and conversely, what is needed to keep it secured."

Aang nods, but the others look confused. "Keep a vigil by his side," he advises more plainly. "There should always be at least one person with him: myself, any one of you, any person in the Northern Air Temple who has a significant emotional connection to Zuko. Talk to him, read, sing, recite dramatic poetry or ghost stories." Sokka perks up at that idea. "Do not underestimate the power of words and the meaning that your emotions imbue them with. They are the source of the energy that will suffuse his spirit and allow it to return."

It is not a definitive solution, but only time will tell how successful they are. Zuko needs just that: time, and for once, they happen to have it. If only he had been able to do the same thing for his own son, to tear himself away from selfish visions of his own victorious return from war and carve out the time to actually help Lu Ten… much would be different. This time is not that time, though. This time, he will see Zuko return, alive and well, and exonerate himself.

* * *

**HARU**

"We were so close," she laments, joining him outside. "He went into the spirit world like I told him to. Everything was going fine. But then he started changing, like he was compelled by some kind of demonic glow…" She struggles to find the words. "For a moment, I saw my father, about to strike me down. It was like I was back home, and these past few months were for nothing."

She laughs, a bitter, harsh sound. "Well, actually, they _were _for nothing in the end. I killed him and would have died in turn without you. Though somehow I think I'd be better off dead anyway."

Privately, Haru disagrees, but Azula seems too lost in thought to suffer much disagreement. There's got to be some way to salvage this situation.

"I don't understand. Is this retribution for my perfect childhood?" she demands of the lightening sky. "I did everything right as my young, prodigy firebending self, so now I've got to compensate by doing everything wrong?"

_"Why does everything I touch turn to ash?" _

…

"I didn't," Haru says helpfully.

* * *

**AZULA**

_I didn't._

The words take a moment to process, echoing in her head.

It's true. Despite their unlikely beginnings, Haru has been with her through thick and thin, staying long after he had the chance to leave. They have saved each other's lives countless times, and despite her being less than loveable most of the time, their relationship has only grown stronger.

He is a turn of the head away from her, and she finds that that turn of her head, seeking his face, seeking his lips, is the longest and most highly anticipated of her life, a moment of truth. In that moment, she _wants. _They are so close, and it is like a dream that she's never indulged in. Her eyes start to flutter closed as he leans in toward her; she pushes forward, feeling safe and unguarded, unafraid…

Only to slump into empty air as he yanks himself away before they touch, unwilling to close that last gap.

Her eyes snap open, nonplussed at the distance he now maintains—_why? _Why lose his nerve now when he's kept pace with her for so long without batting an eyelash, more than anyone's ever been able to claim? He avoids her eyes, as if what he saw in them wasn't what he wanted when everything beforehand indicated otherwise. This doesn't make sense.

"What's wrong?" she breathes. "Don't you… didn't you want to…?"

She hates how uncertainty makes her voice sound, trembling with the fear of rejection—no one without a death wish refuses Princess Azula of the Fire Nation.

_That's not you anymore, though, is it? You burned the Princess away, and now you're just Azula, an outcast with a bleak future and apparently a loveless one, too._

_Everything you touch turns to ash._

"I'm… sorry," he manages, sounding about as devastated as she does. "I did, but…"

"But what?" she demands. _How hard is it to give in to what you want? What's holding you back? _

"But, is it what _you _really want? You might think you want or need this, but you're at an all-time low right now, Azula." He speaks to his feet, wringing his hands together. "I… I don't want to presume to take advantage of your emotional state, you know? I'd hate for that to damage our friendship later—"

"Oh, don't make yourself out to be the chivalrous gentleman, Haru, it doesn't suit you," she sneers.

"I mean it," he says urgently. "I'm not saying I don't feel the same way, nor that you don't, but what if you regret it later when you're more clearheaded? I'm just saying, for your sake, let's not rush into this."

She storms to her feet, a little woozy from several days of subsisting on water and Haru's scavenged-wild-herbs soup. Blood pounds through a heart almost too weak to sustain her, through her head like a war drum, its tempo frenzied, summoning soldiers to battle. The battle, she muses, is to defend the fortress of her heart from being broken down, as Haru now threatens to do. How did it come to this?

"No," she breathes, bending down over his seated figure, face just a little farther away than it was moments ago. "You're just being selfish, trying to protect your own feelings because you _think _you might get hurt. I didn't expect this of you, Haru."

"Fine, maybe I _am _being selfish, for once!" he throws back at her, standing as well. He takes a step back, then another, and some vague part of her that isn't angry at him is grateful. Standing directly in front of her, he would be three inches or so taller, and she doesn't think she would like to deal with that right now in light of her recent trauma.

"Have you thought that maybe I deserve to be careful with my feelings? All this time with you hasn't exactly been smooth sailing, and lately it's been even rockier than usual."

"Then leave!" she screams, on the verge of a breakdown. The one constant that remains to her, the rock-solid foundation of Haru's heart, is shaken, crumbling, and she will not let it stick around to tear her down too.

He freezes, not expecting this.

"I gave you a chance, early on, when we buried Jinora. You said no, you said I needed you more than your family. Well, I'm telling you now, _I don't need you anymore." _

That's a lie; if anything, she needs him more than ever, but she can't bear to look at him now, at his skittish expression, wary of her attempts to control him. Trust is for fools; she's always known this, yet wantonly discarded it when it came to Haru. Now she remembers the foundations of her philosophy. Fear is the only tool worth using.

"Don't test me," she hisses, lightning flickering at her fingertips, and this time she sees fear, real fear in his eyes as never before. A sliver of satisfaction pierces her heart, painful but delightful at the same time. It's been a while. "_Just go." _

He goes.

* * *

_21 April. _**KATARA**

They take it in turns to stay at Zuko's bedside, to tether his spirit to the physical world, as Iroh so obliquely puts it. Katara herself doesn't carve out dedicated slots of time for Zuko, but rather pops in and out, while the others are there, to attend to his wound care. She lingers long enough to notice how each person tends to act around him, how everyone has their own style of keeping Zuko tethered. It's intriguing to watch, if a bit sobering.

Uncle Iroh sits tranquilly, plucking at a beautiful carven lute, humming or singing a low tune. In other instances, he'll spend the time working on assorted correspondence and minutiae, taking care of the many duties of the White Lotus from afar with a serious expression.

Sokka usually walks around the room while reading out loud the revised plans for the day of Sozin's comet that he's been discussing with Iroh, animatedly annotating them as inspiration strikes him. "I just don't want him to feel left out when he wakes up," he says when Toph points out that Zuko can't hear a word he's saying.

Toph alternates between stony silence and chatty inanity. When Sokka dutifully points out to her that "Newsflash! Zuko can't hear you!" she punts him out the door and irritably clarifies that she's talking _at _Zuko, not to him. "Mostly to sort out my own mind," she confides to Katara. "You know, like journaling, but out loud. It's better when your interlocutor is asleep, because then they can't argue with you or make dumb comments."

_Well, that's one way to appreciate Zuko's current status. _Katara has to acknowledge Toph's ever-apt dark humor. Technically Zuko isn't an interlocutor in this situation, but she'll let Sokka do the nitpicking as he so loves to do.

She carries on their habit of journaling, noting significant happenings around the temple. Iroh arrives on the third day. On the fifth day, Teo and the Mechanist bring some kind of steam-powered diffuser they've put together which concentrates the medicinal infusions from the White Lotus's herbalist. It emits a fragrant fine spray at regular intervals that makes the whole room smell like the forest gods just visited, but more importantly, it's supposed to make Zuko heal faster. It might be working; Zuko's wound is fully closed, though still pink and soft, one week after that.

The village kids come to visit every now and then, supervised by Aang. Some of them bring their best artistic renditions of Avatar Zuko and Sifu Aang. Others offer up sheets of handwritten calligraphy to hang on the walls, brushstrokes uneven and childish, characters lumpy and misshapen.

"Master Piandao would have an aneurysm," Sokka says, clucking over the sorry state of their skills.

Iroh smiles benignly. "It is the intent behind their gifts that matters," he says, pasting one of the sheets up with care. This particular get-well-soon wish boasts the two characters for 'recover' mistakenly written in reverse order.

Two girls in particular, Yue Fei and Yue Zha, seem very concerned.

"Is he going to die, Sifu Aang?" Yue Fei asks.

Aang shakes his head. He puts on a composed façade for the girls, seeing to the scented diffuser as it gives off a serene _poof _of mist. "No, Yue Fei. He's going to live, don't you worry."

She knows that Aang can hardly be expected to deal well with the simultaneous news of his mother's passing and Zuko's incapacitation, but she still worries for him more than for Zuko sometimes. He stays with Zuko for long stretches of time, frozen, as though he'll wake up if Aang watches for long enough. He leaves only when badgered by Katara or politely ushered out by Iroh, and when he goes, he doesn't come back for hours. She can't figure out where he goes until she enlists the sisters, the village's eyes and ears.

"There's this swing set at the very top of the highest temple spire that you can't get to without airbending or gliding. There's no ground beneath your feet, just a mile of empty air. If you fall out, you die," Yue Fei reports to her matter-of-factly.

"You're supposed to push yourself with your feet using airbending," Yue Zha explains. "Sifu Aang told us about it once in class. But he just sits there without swinging and looks really, really sad."

Katara sighs. This is a conversation she's anticipated but not prepared for. Really, it's not something most people know how to approach, and yet, someone has to.

"Aang, is there something pressing on your mind?" she finally dares to broach the topic one day. "You look like you haven't slept in ages." _Or eaten, or done anything besides wait for Zuko to wake up. _

"No, I'm just worried about Zuko," he says reflexively. "That's all."

"Oh, well…" _Gods, why is this so hard. _"If you ever want to talk about anything, you know—"

"Yeah." Aang doesn't want to hear the rest of her stumbling attempt at consolation. "Thanks, Katara."

He slips out the door, evading any further awkward conversations. Directly afterwards, Iroh steps in, very much aware of what has just transpired.

"Do not fault yourself," he says gravely. "Sometimes we want to do too much without realizing we are not the right person for the job that we think needs doing. And that is no shortcoming of yours."

"But Aang—" she begins, not convinced, still wanting to do more, care more without end, without heed for her own limits.

"—will find the person he needs," Iroh finishes, settling himself in the chair at Zuko's bedside. "Rest, Katara. All will be well."

* * *

**IROH**

He rouses these old bones for a midafternoon trek and takes brisk strides toward the place the two little girls attending Zuko assured him he would be able to find Aang. In the distance, he sees the craggy, unforgiving spires of the temple, and sure enough, at the very top hangs a swinging bench, exposed to the elements, containing one very morose airbender. From this far away, he's just a frail blur of saffron and goldenrod and a tiny streak of blue: one against the sky's expanse.

Iroh waves vigorously, well past the age of feeling foolish if anyone were to see him like this, waving to apparent thin air. Then he departs for a more hospitable locale. It is no use trying to force the matter; injured animals always crawl away into seclusion to nurse their wounds. Wait long enough, though, and they will come to you.

Aang finds him in one of the meditation gazebos on the north side behind the temple. He drifts in just as Iroh sets a teapot to boil on the lit brazier. Iroh looks again and notes that the tea is a little redundant at this point. Aang is visiting in his spirit projection form, having left his body precariously at the top of the mountain.

"What brings you here, my friend?"

Aang fidgets with the edge of his robe, nervous habits not forgotten despite his incorporeal form. "I don't feel right," he admits, a statement so broad and vague it could apply to anything. Headache? Upset stomach? Heartache? Heartburn? Migraine aura? But Iroh suspects it has nothing to do with any of those, so he lets Aang continue.

"I feel like this is all my fault," he confesses. "I should have stayed with Zuko. I should have protected him from Azula. He told me all about their childhood, how Azula was always their father's favorite. I don't suppose I have to tell _you; _you saw it all," he says. Iroh hears the slightly unsheathed dagger in his words, the accusation on the tip of his tongue, whether conscious or not, hastily withdrawn. _Why couldn't you have done anything about your dysfunctional royal family? _

"I want to believe that Azula came to us with good intentions, but I wish I hadn't been so blasé about letting her meet with Zuko alone. I should have expected the worst instead of giving her the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes I think that's a weakness with us airbenders."

The water boils; Iroh pours the tea, one cup for himself and one for Aang, for courtesy and symmetry's sake. "When you sought out the help of Guru Pathik, he told you to release your earthly tether by letting go of your attachments, did he not? Letting Zuko sort out his differences with Azula without outside interference was one way of letting him go."

He smiles at Aang's perplexity. "The teachings of the ancient gurus are not prohibited from use by the layperson. It is important to draw wisdom from different places. If you take it from only one place, it becomes rigid and stale. You have learned this too, but are you willing to put it into practice?"

Aang passes a hand through his tea, the boiling water unable to burn him. "I did let Zuko go, and I opened all the chakras. But I feel like I'm undoing all the work we did with the guru, like I'm letting all these turbulent emotions flow back into me and mess things up, and I can't fix me. I don't know anyone who can."

Iroh nods. Unspoken is the understanding that normally Zuko would be that person. The two of them are closer than any of the friends, and he does not need Aang to tell him that Zuko means everything to him. Yet while Zuko remains gravely unable to register anything anyone says to him, Aang still needs someone tangible who can help him.

"There is nothing wrong with letting the people who love you, help you," he says gently.

Aang sighs. "I don't know that that would be a good idea. The things in my head right now… aren't good. It's bad enough keeping them to myself but spreading them to the others is just a recipe for low spirits all around. I… I just can't."

Reading between the lines, he hears that the things bothering Aang exceed what he has told Iroh thus far, and that does not surprise him. These youths have encountered so much at such a tender age with little to no guidance, but that does not have to stay true.

"I do not mean Toph, Sokka, and Katara, though I believe they would be more than willing and able to help you. I mean someone closer to you."

Aang frowns. "Who?"

Iroh gestures at Aang's wispy, intangible form. "You have mastered the art of spirit projection; you roam free between the planes. Zuko's spirit wanders in realms beyond this one, and you know that as the Avatar, his spirit incorporates not only himself, but all his past incarnations as well."

He watches understanding bloom on Aang's face like a water lily, slow and shy beneath a torrid sun, but radiant in its fullness by the end.

* * *

**AANG**

Toph and Sokka are at Zuko's side when Aang returns, elated by the potential of Iroh's advice.

"Oh hey, Aang," Sokka greets uncertainly. "Twinkletoes, you're not okay." Toph is tired of beating around the bush; Katara must have tipped her off. "Your footsteps are heavier than I've ever felt them. What's on your mind? Spit it out already."

Aang resists the urge to grin and stomp his feet loudly, reinforcing the heaviness. Toph always understands even if she has the least delicate way of expressing herself.

"You're going to be a little weirded out but bear with me here. There's someone I need to talk with, and he's right here in the room with us."

"Hate to break it to you, but His Avatar-ness still isn't receiving any audiences," she says sarcastically.

"Yeah, I know, but I didn't mean Zuko. I meant my father, the Avatar before Zuko."

"What?"

He scoots Zuko's legs over to make room at the foot of the bed and settles into a meditative pose, eyes closed. Toph and Sokka seem confounded, but it's not like they haven't seen weirder things before. _Get with the program, kids; this is part and parcel of hanging out with the Avatar. _

"See you all in a bit," he says as he slips away from his body with cheerful ease.

AAA

He knows he will succeed, because if Zuko's spirit is indeed somewhere wandering in his mind, nonadherent to his body, then Aang's spirit only has to follow it to find his father.

"Hello, Aang."

"Dad." It comes so naturally to his lips, even though he's never had the chance to say it in person. "I… I found you." _Obviously. Gods, Aang, he's going to think your mother raised an idiot. _

"No child of mine could ever be an idiot, especially not if raised by Jinora," his father says, a reproving smile gracing stern lips. "Don't trouble yourself with trying to prove anything to me. You have shown the substance of your integrity and virtue to Zuko time and time again, and that is enough for me."

_Zuko… _"Dad, Zuko might never come back to his body because of me. I shouldn't have stayed so far away while he was holed up with Azula. He needed me. I'd just gotten the news that mom had passed, and I was in shock, feeling guilty for not being there for her. I didn't react fast enough. I should've been right there, right away to help him."

He waxes on, unable to stop the rush of guilt and shame that envelopes him. "It's not just that. Azula hurt Zuko, but I hurt her even more. In that moment, I truly wanted to kill her. I nearly did. What kind of an Air Nomad does that make me? I know you think the world of me because Zuko does, but Dad, I'm nothing like that. I'm the last airbender, but I'm not fit to be. I _can't._

"I've learned the ways of the gurus. I'm passing on everything that mom taught me to the next generation, but at heart, I'm falling short of who and what I need to be."

"Aang, tell me about the cicada," Tenzin says, appearing to ignore everything he has just said.

"The cicada…?" Aang halts abruptly, unable to determine where Tenzin is going with this. He knows that his father mentioned it in his last letter to Jinora before he died, so it must be worth remembering.

_To eschew fame and wealth and be without desire_

_And take pleasure in singing alone_

_With a clear bright voice that grows ever stronger_

_Like the will of an honorable man._

"Do cicadas sing constantly, every moment of their lives?" Tenzin asks. "Do they devote all their time to an endless song?"

It's a leading question, but Aang still hesitates. "Well, no. They have to sleep for seventeen years, and when they wake up, they have to eat, find their mates, do… whatever cicadas do in their spare time."

"Exactly. If even the cicada does not sing constantly, who are you to think that your voice must ring out stronger, clearer, brighter, without cease? You are finite, you are human. Your journey and your spiritual progress do not fall in on a straight line."

Aang fiddles with his fingers, flickering between six meditation hand signs like a nervous acolyte. "Yes, but I feel as if I've already lost the progress that I've made. The guru said once I open all the chakras, I'll be able to achieve balance within myself. But now I feel like I'm completely out of balance."

"Opening the chakras does not mean you will never again feel the emotions that initially blocked them," Tenzin says. "You will open your chakras many times throughout your life. That does not mean that you have failed. It simply means that you recognize when your emotions are keeping you from accessing your true potential. You will find that it gets easier each time."

He rises, and Aang does the same, puzzling his way through the nebulous unknowable space that they occupy. From around his neck, Tenzin unravels a necklace with wooden beads and hands it to him. Aang examines it carefully: in the center rests a row of seven special beads, carved with elemental symbols and set off with a red tassel on either side.

"These will help you meditate through the seven chakras and remember what it is that you must let go."

Aang nods, then looks up at his father, uncertain about how to approach the last thing on his mind. "Dad… Zuko and I… we have this _thing_ going on. It's hard to explain."

Tenzin's lips twitch in a minute smile. "Could this _thing_ be referring to your undying love and trust that's been developing ever since the two of you met and will likely continue for the rest of your lives?"

"No! Well, yes… I mean, I think we have a deeper connection. Somehow, we're always able to find each other. When I don't know where to look, I just _feel _for him, which probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense the way I'm explaining it…" he rambles. "I don't usually get an exact location, but more of a general sense of where he is, physically, emotionally, er… metaphysically, I guess. Er." He stumbles to a halt, tied up in his own words. "Is that normal?"

"Of course," Tenzin says crisply. "Your mother and I were just the same."

_Oh. _Well, that was a lot more reassuring than he'd expected. "So I'll always be able to find Zuko when he needs me."

"Naturally. However… you will find that part of letting go of Zuko is knowing when he needs you, and when he needs to be found. Know this, and you know him better than anyone alive."

AAA

He opens his eyes and looks down at Zuko's still-comatose countenance. _Do you need to be found? Or do you need to find your own way back? Either way, I'll be here waiting. _

"So what's your dad like?" Sokka asks, looking up from a complicated table of tallies scrawled on a fresh scroll.

"Are you collecting paternal statistics for the group?" That's the only explanation Aang can think of for Sokka's sudden interest.

"0 out of 10 for my dad," Toph says immediately.

"No, 0 for _Zuko's_ dad, 1 for your dad since we did manage to bully him into signing an agreement." Sokka assigns values with enthusiasm, even though that's definitely not the purpose of his multilevel table of numbers. It's probably a schematic for supply trains for the regiments or something practical like that, Aang hypothesizes.

"10 for _my_ dad because he's awesome, 8.5 for Uncle Iroh, points deducted for sometimes confusing wisdom," Sokka continues. "So what was he like, Aang?"

Aang smiles, the light sensation of immaterial wooden beads slung around his neck still lingering into the physical world. "My dad was great. Gave me lots of great advice on life and love."

"…" Sokka doesn't seem impressed. "You left your body and entered Zuko's just so you could get romantic tips from your father, who's also housed in Zuko's body? That's _weeeeird."_

"I think it's kind of sweet," Toph declares.

* * *

_30 April. _**ZUKO**

_"Leaves from the vine, falling so slow…"_

He knows that voice, even if he cannot seem to open his eyes to see who it is yet.

_"Like tiny, fragile shells, drifting on the foam…"_

He shunts all his efforts into trying to move his heavy eyelids, his lips, his fingers, anything to escape this leaden paralysis that's settled over him.

_"Little soldier boy, comes marching home…"_

_Come on. _He grits his teeth, pushing past his lethargy, the muddled sleep of oblivion.

_"Brave soldier boy, comes marching home…"_

Finally, he manages to open his eyes, blurry vision greeting him, and a familiar face he has not had opportunity to see for a long time. Uncle Iroh smiles down at him. "Well, that worked like a charm. You came home to yourself, just as I knew you would."

"Uncle…?" He struggles to gather his thoughts, mind like a confused tumbleweed of tangled strands and ideas.

"Don't stress yourself just now. You've been through a very arduous ordeal, and no one expects you to be back to full speed right away," Iroh reassures him.

He nods, not knowing what else he can do.

"Focus on your breathing and your body. Reacquaint yourself with this world. You've been away for some time."

Zuko does as he says, long breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth, the air suffusing his body and restoring his circulation, and he starts feeling more clearheaded presently.

"You sang that song earlier, didn't you?" he realizes. "I remember hearing it when I was… elsewhere." In that strange, grey underworld where monstrosities roamed, where his memory is still fuzzy and clouded with confusion.

"Hm…" Uncle sounds like he's puzzling it out, unable to match Zuko's memory to his own. "Ah yes, I did. It was quite a while ago, though."

Zuko frowns, parsing his words. "Uncle, I… when did you get here? How long…? The sun spirit attacked me, and then I don't know what happened… I was in this foggy place and it was dark, and I didn't know where anyone else was—"

Iroh places a hand on his shoulder, strong, firm grip grounding him even as he tumbles to a panicked crescendo. "Deep breaths, Zuko. I will answer your questions, but before I do, you need to focus your breaths."

He pushes himself to renew his breathing, regulating its rhythm and sensing his body and its surroundings, not letting himself escape into his mind again.

_I'm here. Alive, _he reminds himself stoutly. _By here, I mean in bed. In my bed. In Aang's and my bed. _Where's Aang? _No, not right now. _If Aang were hurt or otherwise unwell, he would feel it, he knows. _Focus on yourself. _

_I'm here. Uncle is here too. I'm alive, definitely. Well? Eh… _He assesses matters briefly. His arms and legs feel like lead pipes, but they respond when he shifts them. His neck and back ache, likely from lying here for unspecified lengthy length of time…? For some reason, his torso is constricted by a generous helping of bandages that wind around his chest and up past his left shoulder. Uncle helps him to sit up, and he wiggles his shoulders, stiff and sore. A particularly vigorous shrug sends a lancing pain throughout his left half, and he winces gingerly.

"Azula told me to find the sun spirit, to stop the comet, to stop its power," he says, piecing things together. "I went into the spirit world and met the sun spirit, but it turned on me. It was angry at me, a human trying to interfere… I was terrified."

He looks to his uncle, trying to figure out what transpired after his memory leaves a blank. "Uncle, what happened?" He puts on his most neutral face, portraying a calm and composed exterior, though Iroh probably sees through that with ease.

"You don't remember?"

_Would I be asking if I did? _This whole time, ever since leaving home, has been a quagmire of searching for answers that don't exist. Why can't things ever be straightforward?

Iroh picks up the teapot next to him and pours a cup of tea. "Azula attacked you while you were in the spirit world, then fled. For what reason, I do not know, but the damage she wrought was severe." He nods at the length of bandages swaddling Zuko's chest. "I arrived soon after I received the news from Sokka. You've been asleep for just over three weeks."

He hands the cup of tea to Zuko, who takes it with numb hands. _Three weeks… _Zuko's stomach feels hollow, and not just because he hasn't eaten in all this time. Everyone must be worried sick about him, and yet he's just been lying here useless, unable to help with the organization for the last battle, or train with Aang, or see to the young Air Acolytes' education, or do anything at all. Shame floods him, disappointment in how far they've been set back by his incapacitation and inability to recruit the sun spirit.

"I couldn't get the sun spirit to agree to our plan. I failed." He sighs, lifting the cup to his lips. "Well, what else is new?"

The tea has cooled, and he blows on it to reheat it. He drinks again—it's still cool. _What's going on?_

Iroh watches as he carefully sets the cup down on the table and holds a hand out in front of himself. He's been doing this for almost a decade; it's not supposed to be hard. _Breathe in, breathe out, and breathe the fire into being… _except that it doesn't work. The surface of his palm remains stubbornly barren of the bright flame that he normally summons with ease.

"Zuko…"

It can't be. _How could I have lost my bending? _In quick succession, he pulls the water from the tea cup, swirling it around his head in a frantic whirlpool; sends a flurry of compressed air around the room, rattling the window shade and knocking several scrolls from their nooks; and finally returns to his empty teacup, bending the finely designed clay into an amorphous lump. _So I've only lost my firebending_, he concludes.

_Only? _another voice in his head mocks. _Lose one and the rest are worthless. You'll never re-achieve the Avatar state with just three elements. _

He leans back against the headboard, suddenly exhausted.

"Zuko, your firebending is not forfeit; we do not know that for sure yet," his uncle cautions. "It is not unheard of for benders to temporarily lose their abilities after great shock and trauma. Your own cousin lost his firebending after a devastating battle during the war, but he persisted and went on to win many battles."

Zuko absorbs this information numbly. Lu Ten never told him that, but he hardly wonders why he bothers to be surprised anymore. _This war has taken and taken and taken everything from us, and we keep on giving in spite of it. _

"Did he ever get his bending back?" The answer almost doesn't matter. Uncle says nothing, and Zuko tries to suppress his unkind amusement at Iroh's stymied silence. Sometimes wisdom doesn't come at the tap or switch of a faucet, to be divvied out at will.

"Remember the old man on the frontier, who never saw a good omen as good alone," Iroh offers, ever a fount of handy proverbs. "The converse is true: no misfortune is ever just a misfortune."

"His horse ran away, which was a good thing, because it brought back more horses, which was a bad thing, because his son got thrown by one of the new horses and broke his leg, which was a good thing, because as a result he wasn't conscripted and didn't end up dying in the war like everyone else," Zuko recites dully. "Gods, maybe Lu Ten should've thought of _that_ before he went off to war."

"Zuko, you cannot think like that. You carry the hopes and dreams of the people of this world. You will derive something good from this misfortune, because you must, for all their sakes."

_This isn't helping. _"I'm their hope," he says unspiritedly. "But where is _my _hope? There is no hope."

"No, Zuko." This is the most unsettled he's ever seen his uncle; he must be really upset. "You must never give in to despair. Allow yourself to slip down that road and you surrender to your lowest instincts. In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the meaning of inner strength."

_Is it now? _"Well, maybe I'll go find some inner strength then." He closes his eyes pointedly.

Iroh sighs, a discouraging sound. "Sleep well, Zuko."

ZZZ

He doesn't know when he fell back to sleep after Uncle Iroh stepped out, but when he wakes up again, another familiar face drifts into view.

"We have got to stop running into each other like this," he mumbles.

Aang laughs, the sweetest sound, like bells shaken by a gentle breeze. "What do you mean?"

"Well, there's the day we met, when you saved me from drowning," Zuko lists. "At Meikuang, after the tree spirit released me. At Pohuai, when _you _had the nerve to nearly die on me. At Laghima's island, after I almost drowned again. And then that time right after Hama bloodbent me. Mm…" He struggles to think of any more instances in which they skirted death, only to find life in each other's arms once again. He draws a blank. "I think that's it."

Aang takes one hand in his, cradling it against his face in wholesome adoration. "I could use less of the near-death experiences too," he admits. "But somehow, I don't think that's likely to happen with us. So I'm going to have to do my best to keep you from dying."

"Same." He sits up a little gingerly, and Aang stacks the pillows behind his back in support. He notices a new accessory around Aang's neck, a lovely wooden necklace with seven carved beads in the front row. "That's pretty—where did you get that?"

"I made it myself a few days ago after I visited my father. It's to help with keeping the chakras open." He scoots closer, letting Zuko trace the symbols on the beads.

"It suits you," he says. "Wait… you spoke with Tenzin?"

"I wasn't in a good place while you were out, so Uncle Iroh suggested I take advantage of your spiritual absence to let my father's spirit come to the surface… okay, that sounds kind of bad saying it like that." Aang ducks his head a little in embarrassment. "I mean, you were outside of your body, so I decided to slip in and have a talk with dad instead, and wow, I'm making it sound even worse now aren't I."

"I don't mind," Zuko says, amused at his unwarranted vexation. "I don't mind anything that makes you closer to me." He slips one hand into Aang's, plucking those long fingers out of a loose fist, pulling them to his lips and pressing light kisses to the back of his hand. "I'm sorry, Aang. You must have been so worried."

With infinite care, Aang traces the side of his face, drinking in his open eyes and expression. "I got the help I needed, and you're back now. It's okay, Zuko."

He's sixteen years old and the Avatar to boot, but somehow, it never fails to warm his heart and still his worries when Aang tells him this. Nothing is okay, absolutely nothing, and yet he knows that Aang speaks the truth, that they will be alright with time. Also, it seems that taking a nap really does wonders for the soul.

They lean into a soft kiss, lips barely parting, hands and arms wound around each other's shoulders, reveling in that blessed safety and security, heaven on earth in a tiny circumference. _It's going to be okay. _He will find his goddamn inner strength, and his hope, and his firebending, and a solution to this whole sun spirit debacle, one day. For now, he can tell himself that everything will be alright, and maybe, just maybe, it will be.

"Aang, is he awake yet, we want to talk to Zuko too—" Sokka's voice precedes him through the doorway, and quick as their reactions are, they're not quite fast enough to disentangle themselves. "Oh good, you're awake, but also, _oogies_, gahh—"

"Can you not be like this please, Sokka," Katara says tiredly. "Some people never learn to knock," Toph comments.

"The door was open!"

"There's a thing called a doorframe; shall I introduce you to it?" Toph cracks her knuckles threateningly, and Sokka says no more.

Hands still intertwined with Aang's, Zuko smiles up at the group, ineffably glad to see them all again. "Hi everyone. I'm… back," he says awkwardly.

"Yeah, we need to work on a team cheer or something for inspirational moments like this," Sokka decides. "Or a team name at the very least. Team Avatar's kind of a given, but how about something more personal? Zuko plus, hm," he scans around for a suitable second half to complete his proposed portmanteau, "uh, coven? Zukoven? Zukovenant!"

Zuko looks at Aang, his lips giving way to a reluctant twitch, and finally a bleary but genuine smile. _Zukovenant_. Gods, it's a mouthful, but it works.

* * *

**A/N**: _Zukovenant _is a suggestion by a dear reader; it might not stick, but I wanted to give it a shout-out.

Thank you for reading! Much of this was written during a fairly severe depressive episode, so it came out rather a lot in the chapter, though thematically appropriate :')

Leave a comment or an emoji if you liked it :) Read notes here: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/46929346. Contents include talk about mental health, Uncle Iroh, and Azula/Haru.

You can also find me on Tumblr: the-cloud-whisperer!


	2. LU TEN: The Deserter

_14 May. _**MUSHI**

_Wanted: Former Fire Nation admiral Jeong Jeong. Sixty years old with white hair. Though he appears docile, he is very skilled in firebending. Apprehend with caution._

"I think that's him," Mushi says, peering at the poster on the message board. "I saw him in my swamp visions."

They're in Yingdu, a colonial town near the Miluo River, its citizens a mix of Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom. Beside him, Jet scuffs his feet and kicks up a spray of pebbles as some soldiers march past on patrol. "Why would you dream of some random old dude like him?" he asks, disgruntled. "If he's that old, he probably deserted years ago. I doubt he'd have any current information."

"He might be able to direct us to someone who does."

"Even if he could, how are we supposed to find him?"

It seems as though their quest is always doomed to end in loose threads and dead ends. On his shoulder, Miao gripes plaintively.

"Yes, yes, food first," he reassures her. "Come on then."

"Wait!" Jet hisses. "There's someone watching us. Over by that mask stand—_don't look!"_

Out of the corner of his eye, Mushi sees who Jet's referring to: a man regarding them from afar, dressed in dark grey, his face lined and weathered from the sun, hunched over in the shadow of a shop stand. It's hard to tell without looking properly, but he doesn't seem to be hostile, rather… surprised?

"I doubt anyone here knows me; surely Lu Ten never came here. Maybe he's looking to collect _your _bounty," Mushi suggests. "What did you spend all those years heckling the Fire Nation for, if not that?"

"Pfft, don't flatter me. I never saw a wanted poster of myself outside of Gaipan—I never came to be _that _famous," Jet dismisses.

Mushi shrugs, not particularly concerned. "Let's focus on what's actually important."

MMM

"I'm sorry, Miao, but in order to feed you, we need money, because money can be exchanged for goods, like food, and services, like my music," Mushi explains to a petulant, hungry cat. He taps the soundboard of his borrowed lute, pondering what strains to produce this time. It's always hard to read an audience in a new town, not knowing what songs are popular.

"Or we could just let her loose outside the butcher's shop and pick up scraps that way. She'll be full in no time."

Jet is thinking practically, but Mushi won't have it. "No cat of mine is going to subsist on disgusting offal and bones from a butcher shop."

All this talk about food inspires Mushi, and he picks up a somewhat downtrodden tune. It's appropriate for the times, though, and he thinks people might appreciate it.

_I left for war at fifteen, at eighty I return_

_I run into a neighbor: "How are things at home?"_

_Afar, I see my house—tombs piled high with urns_

_Rabbits flit in and out, pheasants freely roam _

_Rife grows the grain outside, wild herbs upon the well_

_I make do with a meal of grain, wild herbs for broth_

_The food is done, but empty is the table_

_I gaze out to the east, while tears drench my clothes _

"Yeah, I think you've struck a chord with them," Jet remarks as the last note fades from hearing. "A dissonant chord."

A few passersby pause at nearby stands, casting disapproving glances; others hurriedly leave the square, talking in hushed voices while peering over their shoulders. The man watching them earlier is nowhere to be seen. Mushi feels as if he's violated some unspoken taboo by playing this song, but what's wrong with it?

"You! You're under arrest!" a shout rings out, and Mushi looks about for the perpetrator before he realizes a posse of five armed guards is headed straight this way. _Uh…_

"What are you doing?" Jet exclaims, stepping in front of him. "You can't arrest innocent citizens trying to make an honest living."

"We're arresting him for propagation of seditious sentiment," the captain accuses as the rest of the group surrounds them.

"Seditious sentiment?" Mushi pulls out his most wide-eyed, innocent expression. "I was just singing about the war, and the average soldier's experiences. I meant no harm."

The captain knocks Mushi's lute out of his hands with an overbearing sneer. "You can't wriggle your way out of this one, pal. Anti-war propaganda is a serious crime. Arrest him!" he commands.

"Don't you touch him—!" Jet snarls, swords at the ready. _Uh-oh, this isn't good,_ Mushi notes. _Now would be a convenient time for someone to recognize me as the miraculously living Fire Prince whom they wouldn't dare to lay a hand on. _

Two of the soldiers yank him away, while the others draw spears and engage Jet. He struggles in their hold, not wanting to leave his friend behind. Miao chooses this moment to strike, leaping onto one guard's head, yowling and clawing at his scalp with all the feline rage she can summon.

"Ow, get it off, get it off me!" The man lets go of Mushi, flailing in his efforts to escape her clutches.

It's a well-timed distraction, because in that moment, the whole square is enveloped by a flash and a bang like a whip cracking, and then a suffocating flood of smoke that flushes the area. Mushi twists free of his other captor in the ensuing confusion. Miao leaps onto his shoulder as he dashes away, reuniting with Jet, who's knocked out his assailants, and they regroup, unsure where to go amid all the dust and smoke around them.

"Over here!" In the corner of the market square, the man watching them earlier crouches, beckoning to them from behind a crate of watermelons. "Quick, before they regain their senses!"

Jet and Mushi look at each other, then follow the man silently. Hopefully he's on their side, because they are sitting ducks otherwise.

They escape the smoke-filled pandemonium, running down a alley branching away from the crime scene, where the air is clearer.

"Stop them!" Their pursuers have caught up to them, damn. The hooded man doesn't seem fazed, though.

"Get on the roof!" he barks, a sharp command as they approach a wagon in the middle of the road piled high with merchandise. Jet gets there first, using his swords to vault himself into the wagon bed, then extends a hand to pull Mushi up. They leap onto the roof of a neighboring building, Miao digging her claws painfully into Mushi's shoulder as she's buffeted this way and that.

The man joins them on the roof in short order, his hood having come loose in the chase, breath quick but exhilarated, and there's an almost maniacal shine in his dark eyes as he withdraws another smoke bomb from inside his traveling cloak.

"Get down on the other side or you'll be blown sky high," he says, a terse prelude as the soldiers catch up, shouting at them to halt their flight. "I'll hold them off."

_Goodness, all this running and jumping is exhausting. _Mushi follows Jet down the roof, loose clay tiles rattling in their wake, and jumps to safety on the other side. The landing is hard on his knees, and he stumbles to his feet, turning around to see another vicious flash and bang (does this man know how to do anything subtly?). He tumbles down the roof to their side as the sky above them is filled with a cacophony of fireworks, multifarious and beautiful in their fleeting swan song.

"That'll keep them," he chuckles. "Come on, let's make quick work of this. They'll never find us in the forest."

_More dashing around like headless hog-chickens, _Mushi laments. Well, this man does seem to know what he's doing, so maybe not quite headless_, _but rather, heading for unknown places, which is not quite reassuring.

Their mysterious rescuer says not a word until they are well and truly ensconced in the forest. Only then does he stop and turn around, and Mushi experiences a moment of confounded familiarity. Dark eyes, dark hair, aged and wrinkled features belying the spryness of his movements, a jutting jaw that wrangles itself into a sparse smile as he faces Mushi, with none of the distance of strangerhood in his expression.

But no, he doesn't know the man, much less his motives for helping them. Perhaps a self-styled vigilante of justice? In any case, Mushi's never one to be ungrateful.

"My utmost gratitude, mister, for helping us out there," he says appreciatively. "We were in quite the sticky spot, but thanks to you, we made it out in one piece."

He places his hands together in a courteous bow and starts to incline at the waist out of respect, but the man seizes his hands in a panic and lifts him up, preventing him from completing the rite. "Please, Lieutenant Colonel, sir. I cannot accept this bow."

"What was that?" Jet asks, keen gaze fixed on him. "What did you call him?"

The man drops to one knee and bows. "Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten, sir, the Azure Dragon of the East."

Mushi stares at the wild-eyed, wild-haired man who just rescued them, then at Jet, as if the two could somehow be connected. Jet spreads his arms wide, smug and unperturbed, denying any involvement. "I don't know him either, sorry."

The man looks crestfallen. "You don't remember me? It's Chey, sir. We served together in Ba Sing Se. You led us gloriously to victory at the Battle of Jingxing and many others besides. But in the last battle before the inner wall, we failed you. You were injured, and the 18th regiment spread out to fend off our enemies and get you to safety. But when it was all over, you were counted among the missing, presumed dead." He bows his head, ashamed. "Our men were all but wiped out, and I fled, not wanting anything more to do with the war."

He peeks up at Mushi, still silent, dumbfounded.

"Don't feel too bad, Chey; he doesn't remember anyone," Jet trivializes. "Your ex-commander thinks he's an Earth Kingdom peasant. You're wasting your time bowing to him."

"How dare you—" Chey spits, livid at his insolence.

"All right, all right," Mushi cuts in, trying to calm the waters. "I'm sorry, Chey. I really don't remember anything. I don't even know how I lost my memories and became like this." He sighs, reaching out to pull him to his feet, that disappointed expression too difficult to withstand for long. "What are you doing here? Did you know we were coming in advance?"

Chey shakes his head. "No, it's all by chance that we've met here today. I used to live in Yu Dao to the west, but after I deserted, I couldn't go home. I moved to Yingdu, and here on the outskirts is where I met _him."_

"Who?" Jet asks, looking somewhat skeptical of this whole business.

Chey's expression brightens, his voice churning, speech rapid and capricious now as he tells of yet another unknown figure that will shape their future. "I serve a man, well, he's more than a man, really. He's _enlightened. _He's a firebending genius, but he deserted the navy years ago and lived to tell the tale. He's a genius, I tell you.

"When I saw you today, I realized it was fate that brought you here, after thinking you were dead for so long. I have to bring you to see him. He'll know who you are. He'll know what fate has in store for you." Chey nods eagerly, his conviction unshakeable.

Jet and Mushi exchange another puzzled look. _Or maybe he's just bonkers, who can tell? _

MMM

The old master faces away from them, an elegant _qin _laid out before him. Beyond its edge stretches a bottomless drop, a treacherous mountainside that echoes the sound of a plucked melody back at them. A wan sunset reflects off of silk strings, and the old man's white hair is cast in shining gold. He continues his pensive melody as they gather behind him.

"A visitor for you, Jeong Jeong, sir," Chey interjects nervously at a long interval between strains. The man gives no sign that he has heard. "The Azure Dragon, Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten."

"The Azure Dragon died long ago, Chey, as you know. Have you brought me a spirit or an impostor?"

"Neither, sir."

"Hm…" He seems to be pondering the veracity of this matter without deigning to turn his head. With studied gravitas, he recites the first line of Mushi's song. "_At fifteen, I left for war_—when did you leave for war, Azure Dragon?"

"Eh… I don't know, sir," Mushi answers awkwardly.

"Has it been so long? I remember I left when I was seventeen." The music grows a little more agitated, uneasy strains stirring the water and muddying the currents. "I'm still a few years short of eighty, but there's no return in sight yet."

"Well, the thing is, sir, I lost my memory somehow. According to my traveling companion, I am the Azure Dragon of the East, Prince Lu Ten of the Fire Nation. And based on many things that have happened throughout our travels, I'm inclined to believe him."

This draws a satisfied smile from Jet, pure and graceful on thin lips. Jeong Jeong doesn't sound convinced.

"A dragon is no dragon without firebending. How do you know you can achieve this feat?"

"Well… I have firebent on accident twice. And I redirected lightning from a thunderstorm. I don't know if that counts," he says honestly.

Jet rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. "_Overachiever_."

"_Shut up_."

The old master's words are steady and judging even as his fingers fly over the strings. "So you used firebending, an art currently outside of your control, with no thought for the consequences."

_Yikes, he makes me sound like some kind of delinquent, _Mushi thinks sourly. "Well, yes, it was out of my control, but to be fair, I didn't even know I could firebend the first time around. I had no memory of it at all, so how was I supposed to anticipate the consequences?"

The melody is scattered now, notes skittering down the soundboard like spooked spiders scrambling for cover underground. Jeong Jeong's words grow fierce, cutting, like the edge of a knife long twisted in his side. "I had a pupil once who had no interest in learning discipline and self-control. He was only concerned with the power of fire—how he could use it to wipe out his opponents. Without control, he went on to destroy everything in his path—including himself."

He rises abruptly, cutting the music short with a shriek of the strings, and whirls to face Mushi. He is the old man from Mushi's swamp vision and the wanted poster in Yingdu, two scars through his right eye, expression world-weary and ancient. His movements, however, contain the fluidity and grace of youth as his fingers twist and scissor through the air before him, gathering sparks, consolidating an unearthly charge—lightning brewing at his command, and with distant dread, Mushi watches him lift his hand in damnation to release the lightning straight at him.

He moves without thinking, his reaction natural and unrehearsed. It seems to take several seconds for the lethal charge to breach his fingertips, but in reality, his processing speed is heightened by instinct, taking the lightning into his own body. He does not let it coil in his stomach, but rather pushes it out through the right hand, raised heavenward, releasing the lightning to the sky and charging the whole valley in ghastly white for dizzying seconds.

He collapses to the ground as the lightning leaves him, clutching at his right shoulder stretched past its limits.

"Mushi!"

Jet is on his knees at his side, one strong hand on that same damaged shoulder, that familiar distress flooding his face whenever Mushi is in life-threatening danger; too often, of late.

"I'm all right," he says hoarsely, wincing at the pain.

On Mushi's other side, Chey gapes in shock at the powerful display, while Jeong Jeong nods, as if he knew all along that this would happen. He bows as Mushi stares at his hands, still tingling with the lingering effects of the lightning.

"_'Hidden dragon in the depths, to Heaven's zenith shall you ascend.' _Welcome back, Azure Dragon."

Jet chokes out a shaky laugh. "What, that's your idea of a welcome? Shooting people full of lightning to see if they crumble into ashes?"

"Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures," Jeong Jeong remarks. "When I was a young man, I dreamed of a blue dragon who came to me during a thunderstorm. He claimed to be a lost scion of the Fire Nation royal house, and he was able to spit tongues of coldest fire and regurgitate lightning from on high. Today, my dream came to pass.

"Besides, you look so like your father when he was your age. The lightning only served to confirm what I suspected. You are Iroh's son, alive against all odds."

"So… what are you going to do about that?" Jet questions, helping Mushi to his feet. At a miffed eyebrow from the old master, he clarifies. "You got this wonderful vision as a young man; now you're an old man—maybe it means you should use the experience you've gained over a lifetime to help him? Right now he's only able to firebend spontaneously, accidentally."

_Well, that's true, even if he probably could have phrased it more sensitively. _"Master, I would be honored if you would teach me firebending." He echoes Jet's thoughts, but Jeong Jeong looks away, his profile gloomy and shadowed against the darkening sky. "I want to improve my bending and at least maintain my command over that part of my identity. Please, Master."

"I am not your master, nor will I ever be," Jeong Jeong says, turning his back sharply. His words are more urgent than before, with all the force of the lightning he conjured compressed into those few, pained syllables. His voice is fraught with deep emotion, as if he cannot bear the words he utters. "You are better off not learning. What has firebending ever done for you except conscript you into this terrible war and leave you unrecognizable to even yourself? No, I will not teach you."

"But—" Mushi starts to protest.

"There is nothing to debate," Jeong Jeong says with finality. "You will not learn from me."

MMM

"How is Lu Ten written?" Mushi asks later that night.

Chey stalls a moment in surprise, having spent the past few hours telling Mushi about his past as the Azure Dragon, but of course, his name itself hadn't been a central part of the conversation. With a long stick, he draws in the dirt around the campfire, strokes forming the characters for Lu Ten's name.

"The road, for _lu, _and _ten, _to soar, to ascend," Mushi observes.

"Just as Jeong Jeong said, you will ascend to the zenith of heaven," Chey echoes. "Metaphorically," he adds hastily, as if there were any uncertainty there.

"Hmph," Jet scoffs. "But how is he supposed to do that if he doesn't have a clue about his real identity or even how to control his native element? This Jeong Jeong is all talk and no action."

"Well, excuse you." Chey is supremely offended, and Mushi heads them off before they can descend into any more squabbles about the old master's mannerisms.

"If he won't teach me, then I've got to find another firebending teacher. But is there even anyone on this side of the war that I can turn to?" Mushi despairs.

"Well, there is your father, General Iroh," Chey volunteers. "And the Avatar himself. But… who knows where they are right now."

"Helpful. Very helpful." Jet paces around the fire, looking as frustrated as Mushi feels. "Alright, there's nothing for it. I'm just going to have to go knock some sense into the old man."

Chey looks up, alarmed. "What?!"

"Pfft, relax. I won't hurt him; I'd get fried by a thunderstorm's worth of lightning if I tried," Jet promises, lazily depositing his swords at Mushi's feet. The clanging startles Miao, who peeks out of Mushi's pack where she'd been napping. "But someone's got to talk some sense into the crazy old man."

He strides purposefully off in the direction of Jeong Jeong's hut. Chey and Mushi watch him depart with apprehension.

"He's _not _crazy. He's a genius," Chey says stubbornly, even though Jet cannot hear him.

* * *

**JET**

He finds Jeong Jeong sitting on the dock, meditating before the river, two candles flanking him under the moonless sky.

"You have to teach Lu Ten firebending. It's his destiny, I know it—just like it was my destiny to find him again and bring him back to his real self." Jet is really tired of these old men who mess up the world and let others deal with the responsibility of fixing it.

"Destiny? What would a boy know of destiny?" Jeong Jeong says scornfully. "If a fish lives its whole life in this river, does he know the river's destiny? No! Only that it runs on and on out of his control! He may follow where it flows, but he cannot see the end. He cannot imagine the ocean."

"…" He's a riot, all right. "I may not have seen it, but _he _has. Lu Ten knows his destiny. Even when he was trapped on the wrong side of the war, he used his firebending for good, or at least, to minimize evil."

The old man shakes his head. "No, fire is not so easy to tame. Water is cool and soothing; it brings healing and life. Earth is steady and stable, but fire, fire is alive! It breathes, it grows. Without the bender, a rock will not throw itself! But fire will spread and obliterate everything in its path if one does not have the will to control it! Discipline is key, as I have said."

It seems he will have to be a little more direct in handling Jeong Jeong's deranged philosophy. "You're wrong, old man. Lu Ten is the most disciplined person I've ever known. Even without remembering a thing about firebending, he still managed to redirect lightning, controlling it perfectly without harming himself and developing a technique that no one in the world has even dreamed of. Discipline is his middle name, for crying out loud."

Jeong Jeong remains defiant. "You may think so, but the more he reimmerses himself in firebending, the more he will lose his self-control and return to being the quintessential firebender: power-hungry and unwilling to stop for anything. Fire is the only element that destroys all without a qualm. He is better off not learning."

Jet snorts at his clumsy rhetoric. The elements do not embody good and evil in themselves. Those who bend them do, and use them for their own purposes.

"Of course a rock won't throw itself, but an earthbender bent on killing you will, and then who cares how steady and stable earth is? You'll still be dead."

He tells Jeong Jeong about the dam and the flood that nearly took an entire town's lives; about the stories Chey told them of Lu Ten's facility with using flash floods in battle to his advantage, wiping out entire regiments in a matter of minutes; about the Dai Li, who used their earthbending to hurt Lu Ten and make him into Mushi, memories irretrievable; and about how Lu Ten used his firebending to save him from other firebenders bent on killing an innocent child.

"If anything, you should be more like your beloved soothing water, the element of change. Why can't you accept that everything needs to evolve, including people and their thoughts? Why won't you do right by Lu Ten and help him?" He sighs in frustration. "You're too old to not have heard these things before. You _know_ that your reasoning is wrong: fire's not exclusively bad, water's not exclusively good."

Despite his tirade, he sees nothing in Jeong Jeong's dark expression and tall, proud back that suggests he is swayed. "You're just like me before I changed. But your problem is that you don't want to change your way of thinking. You just want to stagnate in your self-pity and not do any good."

He thinks he sees the slightest hint of a sad, regretful frown, a slump of shoulders in the candlelight like a mountain collapsing on itself, shedding light on Jeong Jeong's dilemma.

"You think you're not worthy to teach Lu Ten firebending. You think you're the beast, the firebending savage who's lost his humanity in the war. Well, here's your chance to redeem yourself—take it or leave it."

Nothing from Jeong Jeong, face cliff-like and stalwart, unerodable against a sea of emotion. He's hopeless. Jet gives up and starts to head away from the dock.

"Tell the Azure Dragon to see me in the morning."

He stops short, unable to believe his ears. "What?"

"Tell him to see me in the morning," Jeong Jeong commands, fuse a little short at having to repeat himself.

He turns back, thrilled. Finally, all the gabbing got through to the old man. "So you'll teach him?"

"Tell him to meet me in the morning," Jeong Jeong says still more doggedly.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's… not a no," he says, elusive.

Jet will take his small victories where he can find them.

JJJ

"Mushi," he whispers to the sleeping form beside the campfire.

"Mm?" a sleepy murmur emanates from the bundle of blankets.

"He says he wants to talk to you in the morning." Jet crouches by his head, elated at being able to bring good news. "I think he's willing to teach you, even if he refused to admit it to me."

The bundle rustles, and Lu Ten emerges, eyes blinking slowly to lazy lids like a pleased cat. The actual cat pokes its head out from inside the blanket nest as well.

"That's good," he says, thick with sleep but also affection. "Thank you, Jet."

"It's ironic," Jet muses. "Theoretically, I hate firebenders on principle, yet helping you get your firebending back is probably one of the best things I've ever done. Why doesn't the world make any sense?"

Lu Ten smiles fondly, patting the blankets next to him. He's laid out Jet's sleep roll in his absence, possibly anticipating how long it would take to convince the old fogey. "Sleep, Jet."

He hesitates a moment, then caves. Mushi, Lu Ten, whoever he is—Jet will never be able to say no to him. He lies down, heart largely at peace for the first time in months, and sleeps.

* * *

_15 May. _**MUSHI**

Jeong Jeong speaks with him the next morning, as Jet had promised.

"So much has changed since you lost your memory. The Fire Nation has fallen back from Ba Sing Se, and the White Lotus looks to defend a failing kingdom from itself. You came back at the right time."

"I'm not really back, though, am I?" Mushi corrects him. "I still don't remember my past, even if I more or less accept it to be true. I can't fully believe in it until I have my memories back. I can't use my firebending at will, either. I'm like a caricature of my real self."

Jeong Jeong frowns, deep in thought. "That may be remediable, though it is not without its risks. As a firebender, your identity is so strongly intertwined with your bending that reawakening your powers may resume your buried memories."

"Reawaken my bending, okay." Mushi brainstorms just how to do that. "Okay, should I just walk around banging pots and pans until my inner dragon finally wakes up, or is there a more efficient way to do this?"

The old master considers this deeply, as if weighing heavy options. It doesn't look promising for a while. At last, he says, "There is a way, rife with peril and uncertainty, but it is the only way to fully regain your powers. You must be unwavering and dauntless in order to succeed. Choose well."

MMM

"I have to go, Jet," he says, untying the leash and leading his amphibious steed up to Jet and Chey. Jeong Jeong's graciously lent him a massive eel-hound, the fastest animal over both land and water. Its head towers three feet above Mushi's own, but its manner is gentle and docile.

"You don't even know what you're doing! All the old man said was, go to this ancient civilization in the middle of nowhere and hope that these 'masters', whoever they are, won't destroy you on sight and instead get you your firebending back somehow."

_Well, when you say it like that… _"It's better than nothing," he defends his decision. "I've got to try, Jet. I've nothing else to go on."

Jet's face falls; he can't argue with that. "I know. I just… I can't follow you to the Fire Nation."

"I understand." At his feet, Miao whines, sensing the sadness layering his mood, though she doesn't comprehend what's going on yet. He scoops her up and hands her to Jet. "Take care of Miao for me."

Jet nods. Beside him, Chey shuffles his feet awkwardly, perhaps also hoping to be gifted with an adorable cat to look after. Mushi smiles faintly at the idea.

"Chey, I'm glad to have met you again. Thank you for helping us, and take care of Jet for me."

"Are you kidding me? He and the old man are the ones who need to get their shit together; they're the worst freedom fighters I've ever seen," Jet protests.

"As you wish, sir. Good luck." Chey bows, totally serious despite Jet's grumbles.

Having entrusted both charges to good caretakers, Mushi secures his bags to the saddle, adjusting the straps with care. A moment away from setting foot in the stirrups, he turns and looks back at Jet. His expression is vulnerable, childlike, and for a moment, Mushi is transported back to the vision of the young Jet he saw in the swamp, afraid of being abandoned yet again.

"Please don't go," he whispers desperately, bowing his head, reluctant to let anyone see his tears, but Mushi hears them all too easily, and they break his heart.

With heavy steps, he goes back to Jet, takes that ashen face between his hands and pulls him down with little resistance to drop a somber kiss on his forehead. "I will see you again one day," he promises, not knowing when or how, but he _knows. _

Jet places his hands together in the ritual motion, bowing low as he has never done to any guru or old master they have encountered, only to Mushi as he leaves now. It is a gesture of irrevocable farewell; he cannot bring himself to believe Mushi's words, that they will meet once more. It is the parting of forever, for him, and Mushi cannot bear to return the bow.

_I have to do this, _he reaffirms to himself. _Jet will find his way without me. _

He turns his back, certain of his fate, stepping lightly into the saddle, and the eel-hound responds easily to his guidance, striding into motion. The figures of Jet and Chey fade into his peripheral vision as he rides away.

* * *

**JET**

He's vaguely aware of Miao purring on his shoulder. She doesn't yet realize that Lu Ten is riding away now never to come back. He closes his eyes, a surge of irritation rushing through him as one tear leaks out despite his efforts to suppress it.

"Uh… do you need a hug?" Chey asks, still standing here like the annoying interloper he is.

"I'm fine," he says through a nose thick with congestion. "I think you're taking Lu Ten's orders a little too seriously."

"Well, he _is _my commander, even if he's not here right now and the rest of our comrades are dead," Chey persists. "So I have to obey, even if that means reluctant hugs."

"Oh for spirits' sake." He steps back quickly as Chey approaches, holding Miao out as a defense mechanism. "Save me, Miao; I did not sign up for this."

"Ahem."

They both turn to see Jeong Jeong imperiously frowning at their bizarre display of cat-and-mouse (barring the actual cat in the situation, of course).

"Ugh, it's you." Jet studiously ignores a glare from Chey. "Here I was thinking you were actually going to teach Lu Ten something, and instead you sent him gallivanting off to an island in the middle of the ocean that's probably full of ghosts from some long-dead civilization. Have you even been there yourself, or did you just send him off to uncertain death?"

The old master looks tired, spent, and Jet feels a little bad. The older you get, the less hope you have for the world, so Jeong Jeong must be pretty damn worn out by this shitshow called existence. _Cut him a little slack, will you? _

"Lu Ten's father, General Iroh, hinted to me in the past of a powerful firebending presence on the island, a divine master who would judge newcomers and either find them worthy to teach, or destroy them entirely. I think he meant to encourage me to find out for myself, but I never ventured there," he relates. He nods at Jet, grim and jaded. "You were right. I fear that I would not be considered worthy. I do not think I could pass the test."

Jet understands. He has failed many tests of his worth to date, falling far short of the morals of those who gave him life.

"But now, another test awaits us: what we will do with ourselves in the final days of this war," Jeong Jeong continues with renewed energy. "I have long been estranged from my brothers and sisters in the White Lotus. As long as the Avatar remained under the thumb of the Fire Lord, all our efforts seemed futile. Good could not prevail, or so I thought."

Chey looks star-struck; Jet feels like he's still missing a piece of the puzzle. "Er, sorry, you said you were part of the what?"

"I haven't answered a White Lotus summons in years," Jeong Jeong muses. "But with the return of the Azure Dragon… I've started to feel a little hopeful. I don't know how long it shall last, but I intend to take advantage of what time we have left. It's time to visit some old friends." He fixes an intense gaze on Jet. "Will you come with us?"

Jet shrugs. "Sure." He's got nothing to lose.

"Well, come on then."

As they follow Jeong Jeong towards the river, he leans toward Chey and whispers, "Where are we going?"

"To White Lotus headquarters outside Ba Sing Se," Chey says, delighted, probably, to be surrounded by more enlightened old geniuses like Jeong Jeong.

And so they set out: two Fire Nation deserters, a reformed freedom fighter, and a cat. They are going to war for the last time.

* * *

**A/N:** Long and interesting chapter notes on the music choices in this chapter, Lu Ten's name, Chinese dramas, and thoughts on Jeong Jeong. archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/47386618

Thank you for reading! This was one of my favorite chapters to write; let me know what you thought!


	3. AZULA: Azula Alone

**A/N**: It's basically an Azula whump chapter, not remotely uplifting, and more about the lowest point than the greatest change. That part will come in another 3 or so chapters. So yeah, maybe not something to read if you're in a really low place right now? But give it a chance if you can. Please heed the warnings. I promise you, things will start looking up soon for our dear deuteragonist (did you know, that's the fancy term for second main character :D I guess she could also be considered an antihero).

**Warnings for sexual harassment, threat of sexual assault, menstruation, and suicidal ideation.**

Please reach out on Tumblr (the-cloud-whisperer) if you have any questions before reading!

* * *

_12 April - 6 May. _**AZULA**

Azula's never valued material possessions much. Since birth, all her needs have been cared for as a royal princess, with servants waiting on her hand and foot. Now that she has none of that, it's easy to see how she just might have taken it all for granted.

Haru (_faithless idiot_) hadn't been able to grab any of their stuff before fleeing the Northern Air Temple with her unconscious body in tow, so she's stuck with no food, no money, no supplies, nothing at all as she traipses through the Earth Kingdom completely alone. Some things she doesn't miss all that much. The days are getting warmer, and as long as she lights a campfire at night, her sleep remains uninterrupted by the evening cold without a blanket. She could use a pillow with the growing crick in her neck, and a hairbrush—gods, who knew having long hair was a blessing only as long she's got something to brush it with. She's tempted to cut it all off, Zuko's dagger being the only thing she retained in her pocket, but something stays her hand.

_You always had such beautiful hair, Azula, _her mother's voice reproves gently.

"No," she shakes her head against the damn flood of compassion from the memory of her mother. "Don't pretend you care about me. You're afraid of me, like everyone else is."

A man balancing two baskets on a beam over his shoulder glances over in alarm as he walks past, overhearing her muttered diatribe. Two women choosing green beans at a vegetable vendor next to her subtly move their purse strings closer, nervous at her wild affect. She must make a pretty picture: hair a frightful tangle, clothes rumpled, lips cracked and bleeding and shoes a miserable muddy mess.

Since her split with Haru, she's been wandering vaguely west, not at all sure what direction she's taking, the sun sometimes blocked out by the high walls of steep canyons and mountain slopes. For weeks she's meandered without a goal in mind, coming across small settlements every few days and trying to scrape a meal here and there.

She manages to snag a job one day waiting tables in a small restaurant but snaps at two consecutive customers without provocation. She finishes strong by emptying a bowl of soup over a third man's head and is summarily dismissed before the first day's wage.

_Maybe I wasn't cut out for customer service. Or at least, I was usually on the other side of the table._

AAA

The dagger comes in handy one afternoon towards dusk as she follows a young woman home from the market. In small strides restricted by her long skirt, the woman bobs and weaves between the alleys, seeming to search for something, resulting in her being too distracted to notice until Azula has her in a clumsy chokehold, knife at her throat.

"I'll take that." She relieves the woman trembling in her grasp of the purse fastened at her waist; it's got lotus flowers embroidered on it, how adorable.

"Mommy!"

The woman jerks at the sound of a child's voice, and with dread, Azula follows her gaze to see a young child of eight or nine towards them. _So that's what she was looking for_.

"Run, Rui-_er! _Go quickly, mommy will be okay." The woman thinks only to protect her child from all possible threat, forgetting whose throat the knife is at now.

_If only my mother had told me to run, five years ago for my own safety, much would be different now. _

"Forget it," she snarls, pushing the woman away and dropping the purse. She flees through the deserted streets, the town too small to boast a night market, and goes to sleep without supper.

AAA

The pickings from the barrel outside the butcher shop are nothing special, but they're better than nothing, she reasons about two weeks into her lonely exile. Grilled kidney and roasted pig-chicken hock sustain her for a few days until one night, the butcher catches her rooting through the refuse pile and chases her twelve streets away until he's satisfied that his gutted carcasses leftover from the day's work remain safe from any thieves. _Even though he was just going to throw them away._ So much for charity.

Hippo-cow kidney was disgusting anyways. There's a reason she'd never eaten it growing up; it's got an awful bitter, pungent aftertaste. _Ugh._

AAA

Begging for alms is her last resort, and to her disgust, it seems to be the most effective. She makes enough on the first day to buy a cup of tea and a pastry. The shop girl watches her with an odd expression as she tries not to inhale the flaky shell and sweet meat filling like it's the best she's ever had.

"Oh, here, have another one," she finally says. Azula looks on in mild bemusement as she slams a second plate down in front of her. "On the house," she reassures.

"Thank you," Azula says, a little irritated at the pitying look she receives in return. She manages to finish this one more sedately.

On her way to find an unoccupied stoop to spend the night, she concocts fanciful ideas about what people think her backstory is. Noble only daughter of a well-respected family, newly escaped from an arranged marriage? Runaway maid from an abusive household, never having known any life outside of servitude? Traitor to the Fire Nation, murdered the Avatar, alienated her only friend and now has nowhere to go? Some truths are stranger than fiction.

AAA

She worries that people will recognize her face if she stays in one place for too long, so she moves on to a new township every couple of days. Distantly, she considers the fact that she could be doing a lot better if she put in more effort. She probably could suppress her temper enough to serve as a meek waitress at a noodle joint and earn her keep that way. She probably could figure out the best time and place to steal a good sum of money from a street-side vendor who's stepped into the backroom for a moment, wares untended. She probably could do a lot better in terms of fending for herself _if you'd just try harder, useless girl. _

"Shut up, dad," she says, closing her eyes and stopping in the middle of the street for a brief moment to dispel the illusion in her mind of Ozai's malicious face. It likely does nothing to dispel everyone else's illusion that she's insane.

All these things require energy, determination, hope, strength, and all she feels is… utterly sapped.

_It's so tiring being penniless_, she realizes. _If I were still a princess, who's to say I couldn't take care of myself on the streets for a few days? I'd go home at the end of the day to a satisfying dinner and a comfortable bed all the same. Lu Ten and Zuko did it for a whole year, but they had each other. _

AAA

_7 May_

She's had a fairly decent haul today: four silver coins and seven copper, and it's not even sundown yet. She luxuriates in the sensation of a full stomach for the first time this week and decides to call it a day. It's been awfully hot lately, and she trudges beyond the town limits, thinking to hole up in a nice, cool cave in the foothills for the night.

This is her life now: eating when she can afford it, sleeping on the rough, surviving, not really living. There's nothing to look forward to, no purpose ahead of her. Even when she was traveling the Earth Kingdom with Haru, they'd always had a goal. Get to the next air temple, get to the desert library, find Zuko, save the world. Those times were hard, but there had been a means to an end, and an end in sight. Now, she has none of that.

A few drops of rain plop down on her head as she climbs out of the valley that the last township was in, going towards the high places. She can't be farther than a hundred miles from the Northern Air Temple, and the terrain is still mountainous and steep. She reaches a broad plateau surrounded on three sides by the shadow of the mountains. The last side slopes into a deep canyon, like an amphitheater filled with an audience, gazing enraptured at the stage.

_Like the Agni Kai, _she thinks. _A performance for the ages. _

There's no one around to watch her, but why should that stop her from giving the heavens a show? She recalls the scroll Jinora gave her months ago, telling her to go dance in the rain. She still remembers the many paces of the rain dance, having been trained early on to commit long, complex forms to memory, and though she's never performed the full dance… well, there's no better time, as the raindrops patter down around her, barely enough to dampen the parched earth.

She starts with a broad, serene lift of both arms to the side, inhaling and bringing them palms down at her sides as she breathes out calmly. Twice, in moderate succession, without rush but without deliberately dragging out the poses either. Now she is ready to begin.

This dance form was written by former Navy Admiral Jeong Jeong, the deserter who fled his post before Azula was born. In a sense, then, this rain dance is his legacy.

_"My old master's fighting days are over," Commander Zhao tells her with scorn. "He's hiding out in some distant corner of the Earth Kingdom, afraid to use his powers for his own gain. I only trained with him for a short time, before I realized that I had nothing more to learn from his cowardly ways." _

The rain dance consists of five forms, each based on a different animal. She begins with the tiger form. Planting her feet shoulder-width apart, raising arms skyward, balled into hard fists, then spreading into tiger claws, pulling the blanket of heaven down to earth. It feels good to stretch so high, and she repeats it twice, progressing to the next part naturally.

A lurch forward, back straight but flexed horizontal at the waist, feet still rooted; she extends the tiger claws before her, then crouches, leaning backwards lazily before springing into action, one heel striking the ground like a tiger catching its prey. She finds she actually is breathing a little harder than usual, though it's by no means an exhausting form. According to the author, these paces, if practiced regularly and with discipline, will promote good health, balance, and longevity.

_"Discipline! Self-control!" Zhao sneers, reminiscing on his old master. "Pretty words for cowardice and hesitation. Don't concern yourself with such trivialities, Princess Azula. With a talent like yours, your main priority is learning to expand your raw power and skills base. Only a fool seeks to place limits on himself."_

As she steps out of the final move of the tiger form, she wonders if Jeong Jeong had a point. The slow, controlled steps of the dance, though far from strenuous, draw a light sweat to her brow, and its expansive stretches open up her lungs. She breathes more freely, back straight and head high, feeling more at ease than she has in weeks. The light rain brushes her eyelashes, just enough to cool the sweat from her body, and she readies herself for the next pose.

The original rain dance does include firebending, but Jeong Jeong had only added it intermittently, preferring instead to focus on the moves themselves and the intent behind each sweep of the arm, each firm plant of the leg. Azula decides to incorporate her fire as she transitions into the deer form.

It is elegant and graceful, smooth and undulating. She plants one foot in front of her, toes pointing outward, back leg extended as far as it will go. Twisting her whole torso in the direction of her front foot, she manipulates loose fists into the signature hand sign: thumb, index, and little fingers straight, third and fourth fingers curled to the palm. She bends at the waist, then retracts and rests her weight on her back foot, arms straight, backs of her hands facing each other, fingers pointing outwards above her head like the horns of a deer. Inspired, she takes the chance to use her firebending here, miniature jets of flame shooting from each straightened finger in a pose unlike any bending form she's used to.

She progresses through the repetitions of the deer form, paces surprisingly automatic. She only needs to spare a little thought as to the placement of her hands and feet, the moves coming fluidly to her as her firebending forms always have. Her mind unfogs, and she has the clarity to ponder what the rain dance means to her. She had previously dismissed Admiral Jeong Jeong as a raving madman, senile and ineffectual, even if he is still alive. But she considers his life and circumstances and finds them not unlike her own.

He was a powerful naval commander for over a quarter of a century, this she knows from her history lessons. He was a contemporary of General Iroh, an advisor to Fire Lord Azulon, and a teacher to many young up-and-coming military stars, including Zhao. But something snapped in him about two decades ago—what exactly happened is of course not recorded to history, his shameful desertion a dark blot in the naval ranks. He deserted, telling no one of where he was going and what he planned to do.

If Jinora's last words to her are to be believed, Jeong Jeong went on to wander the Earth Kingdom and at some point, taught Avatar Tenzin firebending, perhaps in an attempt to redeem himself for the crimes he'd committed against the other nations. She has to credit him for trying, but as she meanders along in this thought process, she considers: The Air Nomads were wiped out sixteen years ago, including the Avatar. Jeong Jeong would have put all his efforts into teaching the Avatar, only for it to all come to nothing.

She passes on to the bear form, its nature lumbering and ungainly, but then unexpectedly limber and sly. She continues to add in her firebending moves as the rain grows heavier, though still not enough to soak her hair or her clothes.

Jeong Jeong taught Zhao, who rose through the ranks of the navy, became a star player in the war, and went on to train Azula in firebending. It is as if the admiral's legacy was always meant to fall upon her: futility, doomed arrogance and pride, and ultimately, defeat. They both have tried to atone for their wrongdoings by helping the Avatar, but in vain. Both times, the Avatar ends up dead, and there is no happy ending.

Perhaps it is destiny that she should come across the work of a fellow deserter, someone whose trials and struggles she intimately understands. And yet, they may be fated to never meet. The Earth Kingdom is vast, and who knows where he might be hiding.

She blitzes mindlessly through the bird form, flying faster and faster as the rain starts to pour, yet she remains out in the open, alone under the naked sky, storm clouds angry above her.

Why is it that she can never enjoy a good thing for long? A full stomach, a sense of ease, now disrupted by relentless cold and rain. A relaxing rain dance, written by a soul that resonates with hers, a motivation that echoes her own, only to realize that both their stories end in death and despair.

Angry in her hopelessness, she performs the final paces, the monkey form, much more rapidly than prescribed. Rising up on her toes, hunching her shoulders and tucking her neck in like a timid, curious monkey, peering from side to side, except that in her case, it's more like jerking her head from one side to the other, nearly giving herself whiplash. She vaguely remembers some annotations in the scroll, advising how this move is intended to squeeze the heart and stimulate the flow of blood, or something like that. She feels none of that appeal, though.

In the second half of the monkey form, she raises one hand to the side of her head, palm in, resting most of her weight on the ipsilateral bent knee, then abruptly looking the other way, as if suddenly sighting a delicious peach on a distant tree (the scroll had been very clear that this was the dramatic narrative behind the moves). A step, a reach, and a decisive throw of the opposite hand into a hooking grasp, capturing the peach, symbolized by the thumb grasped within her fist.

_The fruit of heaven is mine now, and what of it? _She asks the absent Jeong Jeong as she brings that hand down, regarding it intently. _I've achieved nothing with your little form. _She repeats the second half on the other side of the body, moves jerky and slashing, pushing her hands through the air like she wants to hurt it, and all she manages to do is fling water droplets everywhere. The downpour envelopes her, she can barely see anything beyond this plateau, and in her anger, she casts the stupid imaginary peach away and instead gathers lightning to herself, raking in the electric energy with barely controlled hands. With finality and a desperate shriek, she discharges it heavenward, looking up as it pierces the clouds, wondering if they will part to reveal the answers to questions she does not know how to ask.

The sky remains silent; the only sound is the rain flooding the mountaintop, and she falls to her knees, utterly spent.

_Thanks for nothing, Jeong Jeong. _

AAA

In retrospect, it wasn't a good idea to spend hours lying in the downpour. She wakes two days later shivering and sneezing until kingdom come.

_"When you sneeze, it means someone's thinking of you. Lu Ten told me so," Zuko explains to her, and proceeds to do exactly that. "See? I sneezed! Maybe he's thinking of me right now."_

_They're six years old and too young to realize how ridiculous the idea is. If Lu Ten says it's so, then it _must_ be true! Azula wrinkles her nose. "I should hope he's not; he said he was going to his history tutor, so he'd better be paying attention in class or else."_

_"Or else what?" Zuko taunts. Just then, Azula sneezes too. _

_"Ugh." She wipes her nose on her sleeve, sneaking a look at the maids who watch over their play in the garden from a respectful distance. They don't seem to have noticed. "I hope it's not Mom thinking of me. She never has anything good to say. It's always Azula this, Azula that." She mimics their mother's soft voice, pitching it shrill and unreal. "Don't wipe your nose on your sleeve, Azula. Don't recite your answers so loud, Azula, it's not lady-like. Make your bows more like curtsies." _

It occurs to her now that they were playing under the apple tree in the spring, when its blossoms were in full bloom. No one was thinking of a couple young children frolicking in the garden, doused in pollen.

* * *

_9 May. _**HARU**

He stares up at the ceiling above his bed as the morning sun streams in from the rafters. It's weird waking up without Azula, when for months, she'd always been there when he woke, usually rising first, too eager to get the day rolling.

He wonders where she is at the moment, what she's doing, what she plans to do next, if she needs help. He'd gotten back to Meikuang a few days ago, having run into June and her shirshu and hitched a ride with the (for once surprisingly amenable) bounty hunter.

_"I see you broke up with your girlfriend," June teases, not the slightest bit sympathetic. _

_He doesn't bother trying to deny it, knowing that it looks like what it looks like to an outsider, and it really was almost that, but for his hesitation. _

_"You really did." She sounds more serious now. "Wow, I can't believe it. I could have sworn she was your forever girl."_

_"If your next words are anything other than, 'I'm so sorry about that,' you can stuff it," Haru says, not in the mood for her jabber. _

_"Haha, no, I'm not sorry. Are you sorry?" she asks._

_He considers it. _

He's still considering it.

HHH

He wanders through the familiar old streets and paths of his hometown, feet taking him places aimlessly as his mind dwells far away, thinking about that missing part of his heart. Before long, they bring him to stand before the site of a collapsed mine shaft. He scuffs his feet through the rubble and dust blocking the entrance to the tunnel.

He remembers saving an old man from being crushed to death in this very place using his earthbending. Not long afterwards, he was taken away by the Fire Nation soldiers, reported by the same old man he helped. It's shocking how many people presume to bite the hand that feeds and turn on their benefactors, he thinks uncharitably.

No, he amends, that's not quite the case. Azula brought upheaval to his life, it's true, but not entirely of her own doing, and certainly not out of malice. She, like him, was caught up in a war greater than either of them, greater than either of their power to withstand. He regrets that they both reacted as they did when he rejected her advances, but what's done is done. Feeling sorry won't help matters at all.

Hours pass; he meanders back into town at some point, not even noticing when he returned until the shine of burnished metal catches his eyes.

"Lovely hairpins to please the wife!" the vendor calls, hoping to attract a little more business before the sun goes down. "Pretty trinkets for your sweetheart, get them here and you'll be investing a lot more than the pittance you pay for 'em! Don't miss out!"

He thinks of the silver hairpin topped with a blue glass peony, the one he bought for Azula back in Chin village. He snorts at the vendor's creative marketing style; certainly the hairpin was an investment of his heart, yet in the end, he didn't dare to risk it all. What was it all for, then?

He arrives home, his mother clucking at him reprovingly for staying out so late, but there's no true ire to her words. She's overjoyed to have him home again after thinking she'd lost both him and his father for so long. The house still feels too empty. Haru thought he'd at least get to see his father again after returning to Meikuang, but it turns out after they'd been freed from the Fire Nation's occupation of the coal mine, just about every earthbender there had been recruited (_eagerly_, his mother tells him with resignation in her eyes, _too eagerly for those so recently reunited with their families_) to fight in the war.

"A small blind girl, the same one who helped the Avatar storm the coal mine, and two others, children of the Water Tribe; they came to the village two months ago and spoke with Tyro. After that, it was like he couldn't leave home soon enough; with him went most every man able-bodied enough to fight," his mother tells him sadly. "They must have arrived at their destination by now."

HHH

He closes his eyes to sleep but sees only the shimmer of the blue peony as he looks at Azula, her back turned, walking out of his sight, out of his life, forever. Before he met her, he'd never thought he as an individual, or even he as part of a group, could change the course of the war. During their imprisonment in the coal mine, there'd been a few attempts at rebellion, but most were more concerned with ensuring their survival in the harsh conditions, rather than fighting for their freedom. No one truly believed they could alter the status quo.

She did, though, and she almost succeeded.

_Though the peony flower is beautiful, it relies entirely on help from the green leaves. _

That is enough reason for him to get up the next morning and ask his mother for the map of the Earth Kingdom his father left behind, including instructions on how to get to Ba Sing Se and where to find their allies on arrival.

"He knew you'd want to go," she says, clasping his hands around the rolled-up map with wilting fingers. She knows this feeling well, watching the nest empty around her. "The times are changing, Haru. Years ago, none of us would have thought to journey to a place hundreds of miles away, where you don't know anyone or anything. We would all have stayed in this place and died here, but for the war, and for the Avatar. Change is the only constant, but you know this better than any of us."

Indeed, he does.

A week later, he skirts the edge of the Si Wong Desert. His ostrich-horse paws nervously at the ground, kicking up unfamiliar sand instead of soil, the dunes like waves, the desert like the sea, vast and just as easy to drown in. He has to find her before he gets to Ba Sing Se.

(He is thinking of more than one person.)

* * *

_14 May. _**AZULA**

There's a small puddle of rainwater on the ground next to her. She looks at her haggard reflection, pale and narrow-faced, eyes red and puffy from many nights of disturbed sleep, cheeks and nose an unpleasantly inflamed pink from continually sneezing and coughing, her fever unrelenting amid a constant state of malnutrition and lack of rest. She shivers in the evening chill. Spread out beside her is the one patched blanket she'd managed to scrounge from a moderately soft-hearted innkeeper the other day. A few coins litter its surface. Not a bad day, but she finds she can't even lift a finger to gather them up and go find something to eat.

It's late; the sun has almost tipped completely beyond the horizon. Most of the vendors on this street closed shop and went home half an hour ago. People out in the countryside sleep early, she gathers; no sense of any nightlife. It's pointless staying out this late without any passersby to even think of flipping her a couple copper pieces. And yet she makes no move.

The street is dark, lit only by dim lights through window shades high above, warm hearths and happy families living in the apartments above their shops, unknowing or uncaring of a girl who sits outside looking in. She sighs. She has to at least try to get up and go somewhere less isolated. One move at a time.

She unkinks her back from the wall behind her, shifts her legs and manages to pull her knees up to her chest. That's a start. She takes a small rest, arms wrapped around her shins, head bowing forward to rest on her knees, a comfortable bundle of solitary woe.

Footsteps pass by her, but they won't notice this bundle, no more visible than the shadows she blends in with.

_Plink! _A single coin joins the pile on her blanket; the heaviness of its fall makes it more likely to be a silver than a copper, and she hates that she is now familiar enough with the sound of coins falling to identify them on that basis alone.

"If you're this down on your luck, sweetheart, why haven't you thought to pawn off that pretty silver hairpin? It'll buy you plenty to eat."

She looks up at the man, his arms crossed over his chest as he looms over her, expression taunting her, _spirits, this girl is poor _and _dumb. _She reaches numb fingers back to touch the blue peony hairpin, its silver clasp the only thing holding her tangled hair off her neck and out of her face, a small comfort amid myriad discomforts. Haru's last touch to her though their ways have parted forever.

_Though the peony flower is beautiful, it relies entirely on help from the green leaves. _

"It's all I've got. I… I need it," she says, stupidly honest to a stranger who's done nothing to merit the naked truth from her soul. Exhaustion seems to remove any filters she has left.

"Oh, I see." His cadence drops lower, secretive, insinuating. "I _understand._"

She frowns at him, thoughts too befuddled to dissect his meaning. What is there to understand? Unexpectedly, he crouches down in front of her, so their eyes are level, searching her face with a gaze a little too sharp for casual conversation.

"Hm. A little plain, but nothing a bit of powder and rouge couldn't fix. I can see why you think you need the hairpin, though. It's a thoughtful touch."

"What?" she says, uncomprehending.

"I'll go easy on you; you're obviously new to the profession. You might want to try Wuxi, a day's walk southeast of here; they've actually got something resembling a red-light district. Business won't be consistent in a town this small."

"You—" She curses herself for taking this long to figure it out. He thinks she's a… "I'm not—"

"Oh, no, no, don't play coy. That's only cute when you're starting out, then they'll want you to get straight to business." He straightens up, and with horror, she notes his hands go to the front of his pants with lazy ease. He looks at her expectantly. "Well come on then; do I have to do everything myself?"

"Fuck you," she spits, stumbling to her feet clumsily. "I'm not… I haven't sunk that low yet, you bastard."

"Hey!" He grabs her arm as she tries to run and slams her back to the wall, one hand easily encircling her throat. "I've paid in advance; don't be running off now."

She can't break his iron grip, fingers scrabbling at his forearms, breaths intermittent through the crushing force on her windpipe. His unshaven face is so close, too close, and there's the smell of alcohol on his breath, fetid desire behind his eyes, and she wants to scream but cannot—

"Ow!" Suddenly he lets go of her, and with grim satisfaction, she watches him rubbing at his forearm in obvious pain where she burned him. He stares at her in shock, realizing… "You're…"

"If you're going to play with fire, you should expect to get burned," she snarls. She doesn't wait for a response, fleeing into the night, running as fast as she can, breaths nearly unable to pass through a throat practically closed from the horrors of the night. Only when she's safely on the other side of town does she stop.

_Goddamn it, I left all my money behind. _

She dreams of drowning on dry land that night, the air being pulled forcefully from her lungs until she is choking on her knees, looking up at a different face, expression hard and set with righteous fury. It is with sweat-soaked relief that she wakes up with a muffled scream, air passing into her lungs with blessed ease.

AAA

She sways unevenly on her feet, trudging down the street under a sweltering sun that has no business being this hot this early in the summer. The world is spinning ever so slightly, not a good sign. She pauses a moment, leaning against a wall to rest. It's cool and quiet, not yet touched by the morning sun, and she closes her eyes, savoring the solitude and temporary reprieve for her senses.

_I hate being sick. And hungry. And tired. _She's barely able formulate any more complicated thoughts than that.

Presently, she pushes herself off the wall with weak arms and starts to move on. She frowns, looking back at the wall, wondering if it's been recently washed or splashed—the seat of her bottoms feels damp, as if she'd sat in something wet. The ridges of her fingerprints come away slightly stained pink, iron and sweat mixing in an unpleasant odor, and it occurs to her that the bloating pain deep in her belly isn't just from hunger.

_For fuck's sake…_

AAA

She looks even more ridiculously raggedy now, having torn up the fabric of her sleeves to serve as makeshift menstrual cloths. She still has to figure out where she can wash them out later on, not to mention how to survive the day without anything for the pain.

_Aren't periods supposed to stop when you reach a threshold of malnutrition? _She grumbles to herself. Against all odds, it seems she hasn't reached that level yet. _Do I look like I can sustain a parasite for nine months in this state? _

She reaches the outskirts of town, unable to get much sympathy beyond awkward glances and shaking heads, _that poor girl, how'd she fall so low, she doesn't look like she's from a bad family. _

"Joke's on you, I'm from the worst," she tells the absent, misguided citizens who made the wrong assumptions about how she came to be here.

Beyond the walls of this town stretches a young forest, slender trees thick with leaves, far enough apart to navigate beyond the beaten path, deep into unknown places. She has no idea where she's going nor how she's going to find her way back, but anywhere, away from people, away from their tight-fisted, callous apathy, somewhere she can curl up and give vent to her pain—that's all she cares to find.

Her prayers are answered. As she untangles her way through a thicket of verdant ferns, her path opens into a clearing with a small pond, its limpid waters completely undisturbed. It looks to be shallow, at least at the edges, and she tests it with her toes, the sides of the pond sloping gently upwards into gravelly banks. It's ideal for sitting and resting quietly, not to mention changing out her cloths away from prying eyes.

Her hands are shaking more than a little as she undresses, their tremor making her movements clumsy, but she manages. She estimates that she hasn't eaten a proper meal in about a week now, but the days blend together, hopeless, with no sparks of joy to demarcate one from the next.

It's hot and she's exhausted, down to her very marrow. It occurs to her that she's alone here, far from town, so she could spend as long as she wants in the water. Maybe the entire duration of her period; that would save her having to soak multiple cloths daily. It's an unusually inspired stroke of genius; she hasn't enjoyed one in quite a while. Brainpower apparently requires sufficient nutrition to really get going.

She eases herself sluggishly into the pond, and the soothing water welcomes her skin, no one here to see her nakedness. With considerable effort, she generates enough fire to heat the water to a fraction above chilling, but even this tiny amount of firebending leaves her nearly boneless from exertion.

She sinks back down, lying as motionless as possible to keep her head from spinning. The cold water is kind to her sick and feverish state, and she sighs, leaning her head back over the edge of the pond. It's almost like a day at the spa back home, if she pushes her imagination as hard as it can be stretched.

AAA

Idly, she wonders what would happen if lightning were to strike right here, right now.

_Water is a powerful conductor of electricity, _her father tells her. _The reason you do not harm yourself when generating lightning is that you are in complete control of its trajectory, allowing it to travel only along your chi paths and nowhere else. What is a body but a mass of water with sentience and form? Your enemies, who cannot control it, are obliterated by lightning's path into their watery core._

_I'm not in control of anything at this point, _she thinks crossly. _Doubt I could even manage to generate lightning in this state. _

_Would be nice if I could, though._

She imagines it in lieu of the action. An unearthly light, brighter than the sun in this shaded clearing, a flash of pure energy, everything in the forest beyond it as dark as night. A crackling over the water, a searing pain—would it be long and protracted, jerking into tortured quietus, or over in an instant? Likely the latter, considering how Zuko met his end.

_Yes, it would definitely be nice. _But like everything else she wants in life (or in death, in this case), it's beyond her capacity. All she can do now is waste away softly, slowly.

AAA

She doesn't know how long she lies there—hours, days. The sun may have dappled its rays across the branches around her many times, or just once. Her body is stiff and immobile, joints frozen, muscles too weak to pull themselves into some semblance of action as she hears someone coming through the woods.

Wait. Someone's coming. She struggles to gather her jumbled thoughts. _That means… oh gods. What if it's… that man, and I can barely firebend or run to save myself, not like this… fuck—_

She scrambles to her feet, and if ever she's had a bad idea (loads), this would be one of the worst. Lying supine for so long, blood pooling in her legs, she gets up and wobbles precariously. The whole world dims and she feels impossibly lightheaded, no blood at all up here to sustain her, and she tilts, her body unwilling to obey, careening to one side and then the other like a marionette—

"Hello?" a kindly voice calls. "Who's there?"

Her vision blanks out, white spots bursting in a dark field, then complete blackness, and she pitches forward into unconsciousness.

AAA

She has a strange dream, in which a girl with angelic, pink lips and a short, neat braid lifts her out of the water, her hold stronger than her slight build would suggest. An odd choice of imaginary savior, but alright. She wraps Azula in a blanket, and spirits, this is a very realistic dream, she can feel the rough fibers of the fabric rubbing against her bare skin, and the huddle of a warm body as the girl wrangles her onto an ostrich-horse and gets up behind her. The bump and rumble of an uneven footpath and the ostrich-horse's stride as it starts moving—there's really something to be said for Azula's imagination. She often has vivid dreams, or nightmares, but never quite so sensuous.

"It's okay," a voice reassures her. "Don't worry. I'm going to help you."

_That's the real kicker there; why would anyone help me? The one abandoned by both her parents, her friends, who killed her brother, who effectively ended any chance of stopping the Fire Nation's ravage. No, no one in their right mind would help me._

"I promise," the voice says. "You're safe now. I'm going to help you."

_That's how you know it's not real._

* * *

**A/N**: Notes about the rain dance here: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/47962321


	4. ZUKO: The Western Air Temple

_10 May. _**ZUKO**

He is alone out here, not a single soul present to witness his solitude among the crashing waves and rolling sea. The situation is familiar: the last time around, he was on a ship shortly after his banishment, headed to the unfamiliar Earth Kingdom, doused in shame and despair. This time, Zuko hopes for better.

According to Uncle, there is a place where he might learn the origins of firebending and find the answer to the loss of his own: a remote island just north of the Fire Nation, home to the once-thriving kingdom of the Sun Warriors, who developed their culture around the art of firebending before mysteriously disappearing hundreds of years ago. It makes sense, Zuko supposes, to go back to the basics. The dragons are gone now, so the next closest teacher he's got from remote history is this lost civilization that predates his own ancestors' attainment of firebending.

_We all seek to extinguish our own roots, and look where that got us, _he thinks bitterly.

It's a long way from the Northern Air Temple to the Sun Warriors' island, but he has to make this trek alone. It's one thing to wake up to the enchanting sight of his beloved and the welcoming company of his friends and family and believe that everything will be all right. But it's quite another reality to realize that some trials can only be undertaken alone.

Faster and faster, the waves beneath him move, and he rides on a sculpted sheet of ice, sailing over the northern coast. He heads west, hugging the shoreline as it slopes and angles, aiming to reach the mountain ranges of the Western Air Temple within a week. From there, he'll head south, crossing hundreds of miles with nothing to sustain him but the power of his waterbending to carry him onwards. It's a risky business, but one he's chosen because he must. _There's no other way I can get my firebending back_.

It's exhausting but exhilarating, he finds as he guides his icy craft, shoulders aching from holding his arms aloft, manipulating the waves as the currents dictate. He maintains a wide stance, the ice giving him little purchase to stand steady, and it's a constant battle to keep his balance. Sweat gathers at his brow and his neck only to be swept away quickly by chilling gales. He doesn't feel the cold quite so acutely as he once did. In the back of his mind, Aang's airbending lessons guide the wind around him, preventing it from chilling him to the bone. There are worse ways to travel, all things told.

He maintains his breathing at an even rate, warming the air before it passes into his lungs. His heart pounds from the exertion of waterbending and airbending simultaneously, its rapid pulse like the bubble of a fountain constantly recycling its water. He focuses on every heartbeat, letting the rhythm steal him away from the feelings of exhaustion.

_"What is the heart?" Katara asks, her manner Socratic and imperious. "From a medical standpoint." _

_He glances at her skeptically, wondering if this is a trick question. "It's a hollow organ… filled with blood?" _

_"Yes," she says shortly. "It's hollow, about the size of your fist, and it does the most essential work of day-to-day living without you even having to think about it: it pumps your blood. And why is that useful for us as waterbenders?" _

_"Well…" He puzzles over this, trying to read her mind. She's really grown into the role of Sifu Katara, whose water-whip you will certainly taste if you hesitate too long over a question or don't apply yourself during lessons. "Oh! Blood is made of water."_

_"Your understanding of basic human biology is astounding." She snatches up his right hand, pressing it firmly to his chest over his heart. "Feel that. You know, it stopped beating when Azula shot you down. The lightning killed off part of the wall of your heart when it struck you. The spirit water helped me mitigate some of that damage, but you were—and still are—at risk for further complications."_

The fatigue is really getting to him; he allows the water around him to relax and churn into solemn stillness. With stiff limbs, he lays himself down on the flat ice, floating along at will, and crosses his arms over his chest, staring straight up at the sky. He closes his eyes and concentrates.

_It turns out the White Lotus has been harboring the remnants of the Northern Water Tribe ever since its defeat by Admiral Zhao in the time of Avatar Kuruk and Princess Yue. Uncle Iroh had had the foresight to introduce some of them as allies to Sokka, Katara, and Toph during their travels. They've been hidden away in distant enclaves, remote islands in the east, a few hundred in total, and herein lies the source of Katara's newly expanded knowledge of healing and a fervent appreciation for the intricacies of anatomy as it relates to Zuko's tattered heart. _

_"Feel the contours of your heart as blood rushes around inside and presses against the walls. Make sure the pressure feels even everywhere under your fingers. If you feel any little outpouchings in the wall of your heart where the flow feels especially turbulent, that's a warning sign."_

_"Of what?" he asks. "That a dam in my heart is going to burst and flood my body with blood?" _

_"Not exactly," she says without humor. "Any tiny pockets you might feel constitute a weakening in the wall of your heart. If that weakness buckles under the pressure of your blood, the wall could rupture, blood would rush out into the surrounding enclosed space and essentially compress your heart to death."_

_"…"_

_"Alternately, the blood trapped in the little pocket of your heart could slow down and coagulate into a solid clot, which could then break loose and get swept up into the blood vessels of your neck, all the way to your head, where it would then get stuck and cut off the supply to your brain, which would then starve to death." _

Well, at least he's got that to look forward to. He sails onwards, not looking back.

* * *

_16 May. _**AANG**

"Aang, it's been a week since he left—aren't you worried?"

Sokka sounds frantic, but he needn't be so antsy. Aang carefully runs a varnished cloth over the length of the glider in his hands until it reaches a polished gleam, and he has no excuse to prevaricate any longer.

"He's fine," Aang reassures him. "I'll go to him after I finish up with this, but there's no rush."

"But _how _do you know?" Sokka despairs. "He could be lost or… I don't know, captured and eaten by cannibals in some remote cove of the hinterlands. How can you possibly know that he's alright?"

"The same way I've always known." He sets his masterpiece down on Teo's bench; the young engineer's given him full reign of his tools and workspace to reproduce the Air Nomads' favored method of transportation.

_It's about time that Zuko had his own glider_, he thinks. _I'll pass it off as our… five-month anniversary gift?_ He ignores the insidious voice in his head that warns him that their six-month date will be overshadowed by Sozin's comet and perhaps completely consumed.

"Don't trouble yourself to understand such things, Sokka," Toph says lazily. "They deal in conceptualisms and cosmic energy and psychic connections, stuff we average mortals can't hope to comprehend. I wouldn't worry about it."

Aang searches the toolbox for a small knife. He'd like to include an engraving on the glider, something reminiscent of all that they have experienced together. _An inspirational quote, something to sustain Zuko when I'm not there to talk his ear off with optimism._ He smiles at the thought of his grumpy firebender brightening up with a few well-chosen motivational words.

Sokka slouches away, muttering to himself about airbenders with their heads in the clouds. Toph chortles on her way out, thumping Aang in the side. "You two are gross. It's just sickening how perfectly suited you are to each other."

"Thanks… I think?"

* * *

_17 May. _**IROH**

The view from the mid-tier gazebo is grey with ephemeral golden streaks, a hint of twilit sunset trying to peek through thunderheads that shroud the mountain in stifling gloom. Under the grim visage of an evening promising storms, Iroh pours the tea. The long waterfall from the spout is like a lament for those absent, its jade bouquet commemorating many people and many things that they wish were different in the world today.

"I think…" Aang begins, swirling the hot tea around so fast that its dizzying vortex is just barely contained within his cup, "I think part of the reason he's gone off by himself is that he has questions on his mind, questions that he knows we can't answer for him."

"The same question." Katara anticipates him, knowing that a dilemma like this once cannot be resolved just once. It wells up again and again. "Defeating the Fire Lord."

From Zuko's point of view, it's not difficult to see why this remains an issue. If Zuko kills the Fire Lord, will the world not see this act as a son killing his father to gain power? History repeats itself, even as Ozai must have had a hand in their father's death. Will the people of the Fire Nation accept him after he's turned his back on his own people, killed the Fire Lord, and ended our great March of Civilization?

Iroh himself remains painfully aware that killing Fire Lord Ozai will not solve everything. There will still be factions of the army that remain loyal to what he stood for, admirals, generals, governors, minor lords and barons who won't just fall into line. Will killing the Fire Lord further alienate them?

"Zuko will act as the Avatar in this situation, not as his father's son," he declares. "As the Avatar, he has every right to remove the Fire Lord from power. But I know what causes him to hesitate." He holds up a hand to fend off Aang's eager near-interruption. "He is not sure if he, as the Avatar, is honor-bound to take the Fire Lord's life in return for the thousands of lives lost in the war. He remains uncertain of whether he can maintain the moral high ground if he kills as his enemy has killed. That is the crux of the problem."

They pause to mull this over. Iroh sips staidly, the heat of the tea augmented by the unusually humid, pre-storm atmosphere. Katara sets her cup down.

"Did you know, some of the northern waterbenders I had the pleasure of meeting were bloodbenders," she says evenly.

Aang gapes, not having known this. Iroh nods—if he remembers correctly, the art has evolved independently multiple times throughout Water Tribe history.

"Even so, they used their abilities to help and heal people," Katara continues. "They taught me many things about how the body works, how it adapts to wounds and wear, and how its ability to heal itself can be both a blessing and a curse. Did you know, I bloodbent Zuko every day while he was comatose and unable to do anything for himself?"

"Er…"

"When you lie down without moving for extended periods of time, blood pools in the vessels of your legs. Give it long enough, and it coagulates into a solid clot. Give it even longer, and bits of clot break off and float upstream to your lungs, where they effectively stop you from breathing and suffocate you to death. The only way to stop that from happening is to get up and walk around to keep those clots from forming… or to externally manipulate the blood into moving so that it doesn't clot."

She drinks again, calmly watching Aang. "I did the same with his heart. In its weakened state, it couldn't pump blood as well. Stasis of blood flow in the heart is a recipe for forming clots that migrate to the brain, choking off its supply and killing you just as well."

Aang gulps down a mouthful of tea a little too fast, coughing and wincing from the burn simultaneously. She takes pity on him, refraining from more gory medical details. "The point is, bloodbending, which we've only ever witnessed in Hama's maligned hands, can be used for good. So can firebending, and lightning bending, in other applications. So can many things that we at first find reprehensible and immoral."

"So… you mean… he'd be better off killing the Fire Lord? I was under the impression that you weren't for that option."

She taps the rim of her cup, an impatient porcelain ring echoing faintly around them. "People and their opinions change. Zuko has to change, too, if he's going to get to the bottom of this problem."

Beyond the confines of their lonely pinnacle, the clouds part, the grey front giving way to sunset's last rays, their golden quietus lending hope to Katara's pronouncement.

"At the end of the day, it is less about what Zuko should do, and rather, what he wants to do. It is time for him to choose," Iroh says, because it seems right. Many things are no longer in his control now, but they do not have to be. Zuko will change, for the good of the world, and Iroh trusts him on this, to make the right decision. _To make the decision I could not make, to my everlasting regret. _

* * *

_18 May. _**ZUKO**

There's a lovely fountain in the Western Air Temple, somehow still functioning after sixteen years of abandonment, and the cheerful tinkle of falling water droplets beckons to him. He thinks he may just collapse if he takes another step forward; it's been a long few days of constant travel and no rest. He strips down and slips in; the water is delightfully cool and refreshing, and he settles against the broad rim of the fountain, body submerged to the neck and stretched out in the clear depths. He closes his eyes, leaning back and resting his head on the unforgiving rock, and listens, and feels.

The stone under his skin is at once rough and smooth, minute pores providing a pleasant texture that grates against him without being unpleasant. The splash of the fountain, water bubbling around him, the current occasionally ebbing higher and brushing his chin. The clear spray of water sometimes dousing his face, lightly, like mist in the morning in the high places. He's... comfortable, unimaginably so. His heart eases itself into a moderate, somnolent rhythm, so different from the mad race it's been for the past few days as he pushed his body beyond its limits. His lungs expand with blessed air, his breaths nonlabored, and he marvels at how at ease he feels now, away from the events of weeks past, from troubling times and nebulous quandaries... he shuts down thoughts of those things. They do not need to follow him here.

He senses his blood, the way Katara taught him, intuiting its paths, searching for signs of stasis and abnormal flow. It's comforting and unfamiliar, in an odd way, to be so in touch with his own body for once, with the state of being alive. He's been too focused on abstractions lately, chakras, morality, mortality, their plan to save the world, and consequently gotten out of touch with himself, body and mind.

_I'm alive. _

_I'm alive. _

_I'm alive._

_That's about all I can say for myself, but it's not a bad place to start,_ he considers.

_I'm well, maybe. Ish. _

_I'm struggling, but the fact that I am at all, instead of lying down and giving up, is promising. Chances that I will still be alive and struggling in the near future go up considerably. And that's good news to most people, I think. _

He blows out a long breath through floppy lips, too tired to make any pretense of elegance, especially when there's no one here to see him. He's barely coherent or even conscious at this point, which is why it takes quite a bit longer than usual to react when soft lips close over his mouth from above, a warm and shining presence making itself known to him even as he remains blind to the world. Instead, he feels nothing more than a sense of utter calm and acceptance that descends as their kiss deepens, his head tilting back to grant more access, his beloved airbender insinuating himself still deeper into that revered space.

_Aang..._

"Is this a dream?" he murmurs without opening his eyes.

A delighted laugh, a gentle flick of fingers on his forehead. "You know it's not."

He finally opens his eyes and looks up into that tender, loving gaze, upside down and utterly perfect. "You found me."

"I always do."

Zuko lifts one languid arm to loop around the back of Aang's neck, pulling him down even closer as he kneels behind Zuko. "You took your time getting here, though. I missed you."

"I thought you'd want some time alone to deal with everything going on in here." He taps Zuko's temples, three solid thumps followed by a soothing massaging circle. "You needed to chew your cud, like a recalcitrant old sky bison."

A deep rumble from slightly outside Zuko's field of vision. "Not you, Appa," Aang calls to him. "You're a sweet old boy. Young at heart, I guess."

He leans forward, encircling Zuko with both arms, almost collapsing onto his shoulders in affection. They sit together quietly for a time, maybe thinking about all the things they don't need to say out loud, maybe thinking about nothing at all. Maybe looking down the length of Zuko's body, alive and as well as can be expected. Maybe looking at nothing in particular. They do not need to deal in any certainties except the continued existence of one and the other. Zuko, and Aang, together.

Tentatively, Aang stretches out one hand to touch the scar over Zuko's heart, the entry wound smaller than one might expect. Reflexively, Zuko gives him his left hand, and Aang presses his lips to the palm of his hand, decorated by a circular scar similar to the one on his chest—the point from which the lightning left his body. It's a little ritual they now have, Aang's adoration effusive and overwhelming, but Zuko cannot say he's ever felt more relaxed, bookended between these two points of love and energy.

_You make me so happy_

He can't think of anything much more sophisticated than that, not when Aang is kissing him like this, head over heels, dropping his hand and claiming his lips again in joyous celebration of their lives. _Oh…_

Aang breaks off all too suddenly for his liking. "Are you, uh… stirring the water? Feeling a little restless, are we?"

"…" Since Aang has the temerity to mention it, the limpid fountain water indeed does nothing to obscure his restless state. Zuko breathes in deeply, trying to cajole his racing heart back into submission.

"You know this is a sacred fountain to the nuns of the Western Air Temple? Its waters were used in rituals dedicated to honoring Avatar Yangchen, and no one was to set foot in it ever, much less bathe in it," Aang says sternly.

"What?!"

"Just kidding."

ZZZ

"I talked with Uncle Iroh about the Fire Lord and what we can expect to go down once you face him again."

Zuko stretches out on his sleep roll, having dried off without violating any more ancient sacred customs, real or fabricated by mischievous airbenders. "You know just what to say to help me settle down for the night."

"I'll save the full lecture for tomorrow morning, then. The main highlights were: you are the Avatar, not your father's son. And, your decision should be contingent not on what you think you should do, but what you want."

"All I want is you," Zuko says sleepily.

Aang almost laughs, almost. "Of course you do." He lies down next to Zuko, defused for now.

Tomorrow, they will go to the Sun Warriors' island and try to derive some sense of the ancients' firebending techniques and see if that somehow helps Zuko. It's as imprecise a plan as any, but they have each other. They'll figure something out.

* * *

**A/N**: Lots of notes about medical jargon and other stuff - read them if you're interested!

archiveofourown dot org/works/19811947/chapters/49468016


	5. ZUKO, LU TEN: The Firebending Masters

_19 May. _**ZUKO**

"Well, that's weird," Aang remarks as they land on the northern shore of the Sun Warriors' island.

"What?" Zuko asks, curled on his side in the saddle bed where it's nice and comfy. The midday sun's glare is intense, and he doesn't feel like sitting up to combat it yet.

"There's no one around, but someone's ride is here, just idling away." Aang points, and Zuko finally summons up the resolve to squint over the edge of the saddle. Across the beach, he sees a gigantic creature with an elegantly long neck and tail, its body lean and muscular, built for running long distances. It doesn't show any sign of alarm when they approach, but there is nothing to indicate who brought it here, and whether that person(s) is still around. How strange.

"I think it's an eel-hound," Aang says with detached taxonomic interest as the creature stares him down.

"Whatever it is, we don't know what it's doing here, and that makes me uneasy." Could this be a trap set expressly for them?

"Hm." Aang shrugs, unbothered. "We'll have to proceed with caution."

They make their way inland, a gentle slope leading up and away from the beach proper, to the beginnings of the plateau that dominates the island, dotted with jungle vegetation and muted stone structures alike. One building in the distance looms down over them: a temple-like edifice with steps leading up its height, tiers forming at multiple levels along the way—that looks promising.

They start down a long promenade that seems more or less a direct path toward their goal. The walkway is smooth, paved stone, large slabs fitted perfectly into the dimensions, and Zuko notes how neatly they are kept, with no moss or weeds growing in the cracks between them.

_That's odd. You'd think everything would look wilder and more overgrown if it's been hundreds of years since anyone lived here. _

He dawdles, pondering this quandary, and in front of him, Aang suddenly stops short.

"What is it?"

Aang points at the ground. His next step would topple him right over a tense tripwire and face-first into a pit lined with deadly sharp spikes.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"This rope is still taut and not even close to being frayed," Zuko observes. "Not what you'd expect if the last person to set off this tripwire died centuries ago."

"We're not alone." Aang peers around anxiously as if the shadows might reveal themselves. Zuko reaches for Aang's hand, comfort spreading through a simple touch despite these ominous portents.

"We're never alone."

They leap over the trap without incident and continue on their way. The long, high-walled (and henceforth un-booby-trapped) path gives way to a narrow colonnade, one wall of which is etched with a relief sculpture of a figure in ornate headdress being engulfed in dragon fire.

"Er… I'm not sure how dragons could be very effective teachers if they just spewed fire at their students," Aang wonders.

"Fortunately, we'll never have to find out." The irony is not lost on Zuko. "The only 'dragon' left is my uncle. And before that, my cousin, with the title of Azure 'Dragon'. A doomed species."

He doesn't know what he expects to find once they mount the stairs that lead to the temple's entrance. A memorial, a tomb, a cryptic tablet that, once deciphered, would reveal the secrets of firebending. Something like that. He is wrong on all counts.

Zuko takes the lead as they clear the head of the steps, emerging onto a circular forum of sorts with intricate carvings on its surface. On the other side stand the temple doors, shut, and before them, a lone figure loiters, facing away from Zuko and Aang.

Rough traveling clothes in Earth Kingdom drab and leather, a simple, unadorned topknot, unarmed, unsuspecting of two strangers at his back. _Likely not a match for us,_ Zuko thinks confidently.

"Hello!" Aang calls, cheery and effervescent as always. "Are you looking for the same thing we're looking for?"

The stranger turns to regard them and turns back five years of Zuko's life in an abrupt, rattling about-face.

.

"Lu Ten?"

.

For it is him, Zuko's cousin, long dead and yet standing here alive, staring at him across a broad verandah, eyes reflecting the same dumbfoundedness that floods Zuko's own.

"Lu Ten!" Zuko doesn't know how this is possible, but he does not care. He rushes over to wrap Lu Ten in a desperate hug, and all at once, he is eight years old again, fiendishly holding onto his cousin, not wanting him to go away to war, to possible death and eternal separation. If he recalls correctly, Lu Ten held him just as tightly, not wanting to leave him, but succumbing to his duty in the end.

This, though… this doesn't feel right. Lu Ten is leaden and unmoving in his grasp, trunk stiff, not leaning into the hug at all. Zuko releases him, and he stumbles back, looking as if he's seen a ghost.

"…Lee?"

_What? _"You… I—Lu Ten, what are you talking about, you know me!" He stumbles over his words, too dazed to string them together.

Lu Ten shakes his head briskly as if trying to clear his thoughts. "No, no, you're not Lee," he mutters distractedly. "You're… you must be Zuko."

"What do you mean, I _must be_? Who else could you possibly mistake me for?" Zuko's getting the sense that all is not right here. Aang steps forward, laying a hand on his arm in quiet support.

"Who did you think he was, if not Zuko?" He addresses Lu Ten, or the stranger who wears Lu Ten's face, whoever he is.

"My dead brother, Lee."

* * *

**MUSHI**

"I go by Mushi, though you clearly know me by my real name."

Lee—no, Zuko—looks devastated, uncomprehending, and Mushi wants to reach out to him, reassure him that everything will be alright, just as he did with Lee a lifetime ago. But he is terrified of the gaps in his memory, of what is real and what isn't. He doesn't know if Zuko will react to the same touches, the same murmur of comfort in darkness. He stands helpless, arms at his sides, as Zuko whispers again, now without conviction, without life. "Lu Ten…"

He forces himself to put Lee behind him and focus on what is real. This is _Zuko, _whom he knows of through Jet. The Avatar, his cousin.

"Zuko, I'm sorry, I… I don't remember you…—or anything of who I truly am," he hastens to add. "I… my memories were somehow taken from me. I have no inkling of our past beyond the fact that I am Lu Ten, and a firebender. I came here to see if I could spark my bending back into memory. I don't know what else to do."

The airbender at Zuko's side gives him a quick nudge, and with a stunned startle, as if roused from wandering trances, he returns Mushi's gaze (their eyes are almost level, this is most disconcerting), a little less shaken now.

"That's what we're here for as well. I lost my firebending through a… traumatic injury recently." He takes a deep breath, powering through his words with cataclysmic effort. "I need my firebending to defeat the Fire Lord. It's my duty, as the Avatar."

"I'm not a firebender," the airbender feels the need to clarify. "I'm just here for moral support. My name is Aang."

Mushi looks to Zuko for some clarification of their connection—friend? Bodyguard? Passing stranger? Zuko takes Aang's hand in his own and squeezes briefly, understated, full of unspoken tenderness.

Ah. Lifeline.

He tries to focus. They have a task to achieve, no time to be bogged down by long stories and tearful moments. The ornate circular etchings on the ground catch his eye, reminding him of the unfamiliar place they are in, and what they are here to do.

"I have a feeling that this temple somehow contains our answers. But unless we can break the doors down, I don't see how we'll ever find out."

Zuko surveys the intricate circumference as well, puzzling over where to start. On the opposite side from the bolted doors rises a tall obelisk, a magnificent red gem set in its peak. It captures the rays of the sun and redirects them onto a point on the periphery of the circle. "It's a celestial calendar," he realizes. "I bet these doors only open at a specific time, when the light shines on that stone over the door—at the solstice."

"Like Roku's temple," Aang nods in evident comprehension. Mushi has yet to catch up. "We can't wait until the next solstice, though. That's when the comet will arrive."

"Right. Let's see if we can outsmart the sun stone, then." With sure, confident moves, Zuko draws the broadswords sheathed at his back, and Mushi watches keenly to see how he uses them.

"These used to be yours," Zuko says a little wistfully as he notices Mushi watching him. "We learned the way of the sword together from Master Piandao, the greatest swordsman and deserter of the army."

Yet another of those elusive memories that they share, memories Mushi does not know if he will ever get back. This at least makes sense, given how often Jet would rib him about not remembering swordplay.

One hand balances along the dull edge of one sword as Zuko angles the blade to catch the light of the sun stone, trying to redirect it. A sanguine halo of light hovers along the wall, tracing its way up and up—until it strikes the stone set just above the doors. It glows, brighter and still brighter, and with a rumbling groan, the doors ease open.

Mushi quirks an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. _I mean, if this were Lee, it would be totally expected. My little brother was nothing if not precocious. _But Zuko, he does not know.

"Amazing!" Aang crows, much less reserved with his admiration. "I'm surprised the Sun Warriors didn't think of that little trick when they designed it this way. Genius, Zuko, pure genius."

"Psh, that was elementary." Zuko pretends to be unaffected, but there's a faint blush lining his cheeks, very telling. He sheathes his swords and gestures them forward. "Shall we then?"

MMM

Inside the temple is a one-room sanctuary that houses a collection of statues, each depicting a different pose. "Maybe they're supposed to teach you a special dance, and after doing it, you guys will magically know how to firebend again," Aang theorizes at random.

"Sounds about right." Zuko extends a hand, a mischievous smile gracing his lips. "Dance with me, Lu Ten!"

"Uh…" Mushi stalls. "Are you sure? I don't exactly know how to…"

Zuko sighs, crestfallen. "Right, I'd forgotten. We had dance lessons with Master Piandao too, but… you don't remember."

"Oh." He feels rather bad for not remembering now.

"It's okay, Lu Ten, I don't know what he's talking about either," Aang consoles, perched on the head of a dancing figure near the center of the room.

"You weren't even there," Zuko says, tone rife with mock-exasperation but also fondness at Aang's impudence. That gentle ease that they share, that radiant bond… oddly, Mushi finds a little moisture springing to his eyes unbidden. _Dear gods, what is wrong with me? _

"Lu Ten?"

He shakes his head. "I'm fine. Let's get this over with." He mimics Zuko's position by the figures nearest the entrance and prepares to follow his lead.

It's not as difficult as he fears. As they proceed through the sequence, imitating each pose, the stones under their feet depress in turn, triggered by some mysterious mechanism. Mushi wonders what will happen when they reach the end.

The Dancing Dragon concludes with two fists extended overhead, trunks tilted towards each other. Zuko and Mushi coincide at just the right moment, fists bumping each other briefly before they disengage. _Well, that was… fun. _Mushi tries not to be too dubious about the whole thing. _This dance is great and all, but what does it have to do with firebending? _

Perhaps their answer rests with the sudden creaking of stone giving way. In the center of the circle, a singular column suddenly rises, and atop it sits a golden glowing gemstone, shaped like an egg with detailed textures along its surface.

"Look, something happened!" Aang looks exceptionally proud of their achievement despite having contributed nothing toward it. "Oh, maybe if we crack the egg open, its yolk will bathe you in sacred firebending knowledge and reignite your chi paths!" He starts towards the egg, evidently intent on doing just that.

"Wait, no, Aang!" Zuko tries to warn him, but the mischievous airbender is too close. He lifts the egg from its pedestal, which is when all hell breaks loose.

A massive fountain of green goop shoots out from the pedestal, the wave carrying Aang and the egg toward the ceiling, flinging him into some kind of ventilation grille where he stays, very much stuck.

The doors slam shut; they're trapped. The goop is still spilling out steadily. "Shit," Mushi swears. He and Zuko leap atop the statues to evade it.

"Aang, are you okay?"

"Uh, maybe," he calls. "It's like some kind of glue; I can't move at all!"

Zuko grabs Aang's abandoned staff, directing a blast of air up to try and dislodge him, to no effect. The green goo is rising fast; they have no time to delay.

"Zuko, do something!"

"What am I supposed to do, command the goo to stop?" It's up to the base of the statues now, filling the whole room. They won't be able to avoid it for long. Some of it splashes on Mushi's arm.

"Ew…" It's wet and sticky, almost sap-like in its consistency. "Can you bend this stuff? It's probably water-based."

Zuko leaps up, inspired. "Hang on, Aang, and whatever you do, don't move!"

"…yeah, I kind of can't."

"Good!" Zuko bends the formless goo into weird green icicle-like projectiles. "This'll do." With sharp, jerky strokes, he directs them at the bars of the grille, trying to break them.

"Oh guru, please tell me you're almost done," Aang says, staring down at the rising levels. Mushi, a lot closer to the sea of goop, fervently agrees.

"Hang on, will you — this isn't — as easy — as it looks!" Zuko grits out between violent slashes. The metal seems to be giving way, any moment now…

"There!" With a final cut, the bars give way, and Zuko puts all the force he can into a huge gust of wind that blows Aang out the top, still stuck to the bars. The hole in the ceiling gapes, but Mushi balks at the distance between it and his perch, too far for him to leap.

"Hold still, Lu Ten!"

He looks up just in time to see Zuko incoming, _flying _on the winged glider staff, and it's all a jumbled ride after that as they sail out of the trap into the open air, wind rustling their hair—straight into an assembled crowd of warriors who looking nothing short of furious at their intrusion.

_Uh-oh._

MMM

"For the last time, we're not here to steal your sun stone!" Zuko says for indeed what feels like the hundredth time.

"Hmph! That's exactly what someone here to steal the sun stone would say," a particularly sour-faced warrior retorts triumphantly, as if his reasoning is the pinnacle of all logic. He clutches the rescued egg tightly as if afraid that they will take it if he lets go for one second.

"Really, we aren't!" Zuko protests. "We're here to learn the secrets of firebending, the true way of bending. We had no idea that the original Sun Warriors were still alive and guarding its secrets."

"Why should we teach you?" the sun chief demands. "We have no guarantee that you outsiders won't take these secrets and spread them to the rest of the world. Destruction could be on our doorstep thanks to your waggling tongues."

_He has a good point, _Mushi thinks as he pets one of the anteater-like creatures that's voraciously licking the green goop off of him. He hopes the warriors give them treats more regularly than this. It would be awful if the cuddly beasts had to wait eons for some intruder to blunder into the temple, trigger the goop fountain, and only then get to feast on their favorite food.

"Oh, Zuko's being modest; he doesn't like to play this card," Aang announces bright and clear. "He's the Avatar, and the best thing to happen to this world since egg tarts were invented! He's destined to save the world, but to do that, he needs the masters to teach him the original ways of firebending."

Zuko's face is flaming, and Mushi thinks Aang's done rather too strong a job of promoting his qualifications. The chief doesn't seem impressed, though.

"You claim to be the Avatar, yet you've remained hidden from the peoples of this world, not daring to take a stand publicly for them." He peers ominously down at Zuko, grim and unforgiving. "Your ancestors wiped out the dragons and began the Fire Nation's unending war, bringing death and destruction to all nations. Your father, the Fire Lord, continues to wreak havoc and catastrophes without end. The masters won't be so happy to see you."

Zuko bows his head, recognizing the truth in these words. The chief turns to Aang. "You're not even a firebender."

_Well, that's true. _

He looks to Mushi, who knows it is his turn now. Before the chief can even begin to list his deficiencies, he cuts him off. "Yeah, yeah, I know. My father was General Iroh, Dragon of the West, who famously killed the last of the dragons and perpetuated the war at Ba Sing Se, causing great harm and damage to all." Between Jet and Jeong Jeong, he's all too aware of his riddled pedigree. "I might as well go home now."

The chief cocks his head, regarding him thoughtfully. "Hm… the masters might be okay with you."

"?"

He gives no further explanation, choosing instead to walk away towards the gathered warriors. "If you are intent on meeting the masters, you must be prepared. When you present yourself to them, they will examine you. They'll read your hearts, your souls, and your ancestry. If they deem you worthy, they'll teach you. If they don't, you'll be destroyed on the spot."

That doesn't sound promising. Mushi's not sure he knew what he signed up for, but there's no turning back now.

"A just punishment for trying to steal our sun stone," the sour-faced warrior says snidely.

"Quiet, Ham Ghao."

* * *

**ZUKO**

"If you are not here to learn from the masters, you must leave," the chief commands.

"Oh, okay. Guess that's my cue to exit." Aang gets to his feet.

"Aang—" Zuko starts, reaching out a hand without thought. _Don't leave me. _

"It's all right, Zuko," Aang reassures him, catching Zuko's hand in his own. "I'll just fly back to the Western Air Temple. Appa will stay and wait for you. You'll have a lot of catching up to do." He flips his glider open. "It was nice meeting you, Lu Ten! Zuko thinks the world of you."

"He really makes me want to remember it all," Lu Ten says as they watch Aang soar away.

"You will, Lu Ten."

ZZZ

The first fire has been burning for millennia, longer than the inception of the great nations of the world, and Zuko stares in disbelief as the chief divvies out two tongues of flame for them to hold. It feels wholesome, warm but not searing, not antagonistic as it flickers over his palms, a sweet greeting and reminder that he has not lost all.

Lu Ten hesitates slightly as he reaches forth to accept the fire, and Zuko remembers Uncle telling him how he lost his firebending at some point in the war. _Of course Lu Ten never told me_, Zuko thinks. _He wouldn't want me to worry about him_. His chest tightens in retrospective anxiety, thinking of how vulnerable Lu Ten would have been, facing all those earthbending regiments without his firebending to defend himself.

The flame rests merrily in Lu Ten's hands, and a split second of joy and luminous pleasure leaches through his expression. "It's like I've always known how to do this."

Zuko nods. "You never forget once you learn."

Once they both have a piece of the eternal flame in hand, they must carry it over a tall mountain toward the caves where the masters Ran and Shao apparently dwell. Zuko briefly questions the credibility of a master who lives in a grotty old cave, but after all, many great hermits of old lived in isolation away from the sterile comforts of civilization, like Guru Laghima, or Guru Pathik.

He looks back; Lu Ten is quite some distance behind him on the path, struggling to keep up.

"Come on, we've still got a long way to go."

"Can't," Lu Ten says tersely, clambering up a series of particularly steep steps, his flame flickering in one hand. "My flame will go out if I go too fast."

"It won't." Zuko doesn't fail to notice how their positions are reversed after so many years. Now he is the one teaching his cousin how to keep his flame. "Firebending comes from the breath. Control your breathing, and your flame will be less erratic."

Lu Ten huffs out an unsteady breath, sounding quite winded. "Easier said than done."

"You've got this," Zuko coaches. "You were the one to teach me firebending in the first place—I learned from the best. I've never forgotten your lessons, and they're coming in even handier now."

Lu Ten finally catches up to Zuko under his steady tutelage, still breathing a shade too fast for comfort. His head hangs down, focusing on not tripping on the uneven path. "The way you make it sound, it's like I taught you everything you are today."

Wry, disbelieving humor colors his voice, but then he looks up at Zuko, expression serious in agreement.

"Did I really?"

"Yes," Zuko says honestly. "You were in all ways the best brother that I never had." He ducks his eyes away, a little embarrassed to reveal so much of himself. Well, Lu Ten will understand, whenever the real him resurfaces.

"Come on now, deep breaths in through your nose, out through your mouth. You've got this," he encourages. They move on, closer than ever to their goal.

* * *

**MUSHI**

They finally reach the peak of the footpath, which opens onto the edge of a natural amphitheater, a great circular depression rimmed by craggy, stark cliffs. At the opposite end of the arena, a majestic tower rises, many steps leading up to a grand platform that spans the distance between two cliffs. Beyond the bridge, the sun has almost reached the horizon, shedding its rays over the magnificent mirror-like ocean. The Sun Warriors are gathered around the arena waiting for them, and suddenly, Mushi _knows_ this place.

He has seen it in his dreams many times without knowing its significance. When Jet first stepped back into his life that fateful night in Ba Sing Se, he triggered hidden memories to resurface, swirling beneath the level of his consciousness, always there but unpalpable. In this dream, Mushi saw this high tower, himself standing atop it with a stranger, a man who so resembled Lee and yet is not him.

So it has come to pass. From here on out, he does not know what happens. He only knows that he climbs the steps to the top with Zuko, and they must meet the masters and be judged by them.

The chief takes two ribbons of flame from their offerings, passing them along to the other warriors, and in quick succession, the entire circle is alight with the offshoots of the eternal flame, perpetuating itself in sacred resplendence. A chant starts up, the ritual commences. The chief steps aside, and the path to the top is clear. Zuko and Mushi share a look: fear, uncertainty, but a resolute urge to push forward. There is no safe haven behind them to retreat to. They must find what they have come here to achieve or fail.

One step, then two. Mushi holds his fire aloft, remembering to regulate his breathing. The steps seem to last forever, and honestly, this whole day has been nothing but climbing and more climbing. A great heart-healthy workout, but the jury is out on whether it's going to do much for his firebending. They must wait and see.

They reach the pinnacle, the warriors below like tiny ants dotting the ground. To either side rise a pair of ominous-looking caves.

"Those who wish to meet the masters Ran and Shao will now present their fire." The summons rings out, a deep braying horn call, and deep within the mountains, a distant rumbling ensues. _Uh-oh. _Any minute now, the masters will emerge and judge them, either granting them the knowledge of firebending… or destroying them. He hopes it's not the latter.

What he was expecting, he's not sure, but it certainly wasn't this. A knotted, eerie silhouette in the mouth of the cave before him gives way to a long, sinuous form, azure blue in color, covered in thousands of richly shimmering scales, rising into the air with inhuman grace and agility—_an actual living dragon. _

"Oh dear guru…" Zuko breathes. Mushi looks behind him, and on Zuko's side, a second dragon, brilliant red, emerges from its den, swirling in perfect harmony with its partner, their long bodies winding around the tower in some unscripted form.

He's still holding onto his fire by some miracle, his hands shaking almost hard enough to drop the flame. It seems measly and unimpressive compared with the grandeur of the dragons, the original benders, and he doesn't think anything he has at hand will be good enough to offer the masters.

_Okay, but if they don't think the eternal flame is sufficient, then they'll eat us as sacrificial offerings instead. We've got to do _something.

"Zuko," he whispers, as if the dragons will overhear him (can they understand human speech? They seem to have a pretty good working relationship with the Sun Warriors, so who knows). "I think we should do the Dancing Dragon with them."

"What about this situation makes you think they want us to dance?"

"Well, I think they want us to do _something. _Let's just try it."

Zuko isn't a huge fan of this idea (oh how the tables have turned), but he acquiesces. Mushi's not sure what to do with the fire he's still hanging on to, so he keeps it in one hand as they start to move.

He thought it would be difficult to keep up, a struggle to remember the positions, but the transitions fall easily on him, his body moving through each form with a smooth and practiced flow. On the opposite side of the circle, Zuko mirrors him, and beyond that, the dragons undulate in an everlasting cycle, biding their time, waiting for some unknown cue to make their decision. At some point, the eternal flame winks out, but he cannot stop—the Dancing Dragon drives him on to the end, and when he meets Zuko again at the head of the circle, their knuckles brushing in the final form, it is with a sense of deep satisfaction and completion.

The dragons cease their endless dance and crouch on the edge of the platform, sizing them up. Mushi is dimly aware that any moment could be his last, or at least, the last before he's brutally devoured by a giant reptilian beast.

As one, the dragons open their mouths, the chant ceases, anticipatory silence reigns, and then… inferno.

Dragonfire surrounds them, and Mushi cannot even find his voice to cry out in fear or in pain. Yet as he recoils from the flame, he finds that it contains no intent to harm them. The fire that burns around them is _beautiful, _full of a myriad colors, a hymnody of music, warm and bright. He feels… he cannot say what he feels.

"I understand," Zuko whispers at his back. Though Mushi doesn't know precisely what he's referring to, he almost wants to say it back. It's as if the quandary of firebending has been laid bare to him. His body thrums with a pulse that is familiar for all that he has never felt it before. The music of the flames swells in his mind, its harmony and its beat filling him to the brim, uncontainable, intractable—

And then it fades, the dragons retreat, and all that is left of that magnificent moment is the reflection of the sunset in Zuko's eyes, huge and glimmering, an echo of the pure vision they shared in infernal polychrome.

"Lu Ten, that was… wasn't it?" He cannot even articulate the sensations they have experienced, and Mushi nods, understanding nevertheless.

"Did you… do you…?" _Do you remember anything? _Mushi hears, and he is forcefully reminded of those same words, that same hopeful desire behind dark eyes as Jet asked him many times over. He shakes his head, and Zuko reaches out, squeezes his shoulder briefly. _You will. _

They descend the steps, an eternity, but at last they are on level ground, facing the Sun Warriors.

"I can't believe there are still living dragons. Uncle Iroh said he faced the last dragon and killed it."

The chief smiles benevolently. "Iroh was the last outsider to face the masters. They deemed him worthy and passed the secret onto him as well. He lied to protect them."

"For so long, I'd felt that my firebending was a necessary evil, that I could never actually do good with it, only follow in my ancestors' maligned footsteps," Zuko says. "All this time, I thought firebending was destruction, the essence of this interminable war. But now I know what it really is ... it's energy, and life." He curls one hand over his heart, reverent.

"It's like the sun, but inside of you," Mushi says softly, inspired. It's apt, perfect.

"Exactly." Zuko steps forward, ready to firebend anew, and Mushi watches him curiously to see if he's truly regained his abilities.

Two quick blasts in succession leap from his hands, and the flames seem to linger in the air for longer than normal fire does. What Mushi isn't prepared for is the look of pure joy on Zuko's face, like he's been reunited with a long-lost friend. His golden eyes reflect the fading flames before him, and the absolute bliss in his smile is one Mushi has seen before.

_Where? When?_

A small child hunched over a tiny flame, his back to the forest, the moon above. Lighthearted duels with keen broadswords. Calligraphy ink, lychee milkshakes, campfires, the melancholy song of the tsungi horn. A lifetime ago, but it was his, _their _shared life.

"Zuko," he gasps. Everything's coming back.

"Lu Ten?" Zuko asks worriedly, extending his hand. "What's…?"

He hits the ground in a beatific faint.

* * *

**LU TEN**

He regains consciousness to find Zuko carrying him piggyback down from the bare plateau of the Sun Warriors' home, towards the shore where he'd hitched Eely.

"Zuko?" he asks blearily.

"Oh, good, I was beginning to think you'd never wake up." Zuko adjusts his grip, bouncing Lu Ten slightly on his back. He blinks in disorientation. It's dark now, the night sky stretching over them, the stars lighting their way.

"How long was I out?"

"It's been a few hours," Zuko says. "We're almost there. Wait 'til we get on Appa; I don't trust that grouchy warrior with the egg quite enough to stay on the island. He was definitely hoping that Ran and Shao would eat us."

Lu Ten drowses, his mind a swarm of names, faces, memories slotting back into their natural places, an overwhelming hubbub. The only thing that remains steady and stable is Zuko's firm grip on his legs and the support of his broad shoulders. They reach the beach in short order, and it seems that Eely has made friends with a giant furry horned monster with six legs. It growls menacingly as they approach.

"I'm more worried that we'll get eaten first by that thing," Lu Ten says, mildly concerned. "Eely, get away from it, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?"

Eely the eel-hound ignores him, nuzzling companionably against the furry mutant's muzzle. It's also got a wide saddle straddling its back, large enough to carry half a dozen passengers.

"Funny, I had the same reaction once upon a time." Zuko leaps onboard lightly, letting Lu Ten down with a smirk. "This is Appa, Aang's sky bison."

_Oh, that makes more sense. _"Pleased to meet you, O sky bison."

Unfortunately, Appa isn't big enough to carry the two of them and Eely, so they secure the eel-hound's reins to the back of the saddle and let both animals swim out to sea, drifting along in generally the right direction.

"Where are we headed?"

"Summer house on Ember Island; no one in the family's lived there for years." Zuko riffles around in one of the saddle's compartments, searching for something and turning up a lone candle, which he sets in the space between them, looking expectantly at Lu Ten.

It's the moment of truth. He stretches one hand out, an ever-so-slightly shaking finger extending to brush the wick of the candle and ignite it into flame, a motion he has not replicated for years.

"Now you're back," Zuko says, his face shadowed and intent in the flicker of the candle under midnight's drape.

Lu Ten spends a moment just taking him in fully, still dazzled by the rapidity of his memories' return and the sheer implications of regaining his identity, resuming his duties, to himself, to his beloved cousin, to everyone who's missed him. He has half a decade's worth of catching up to do, for starters.

"Agni Kai?" he asks, mirroring Zuko's scar on his own face.

"Yes," Zuko says shortly.

"Plus you're the Avatar now, and traveling with an airbender. You have a lot of explaining to do, cousin."

"As do you," Zuko says, gazing straight at Lu Ten. "Five years. I thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry, Zuko. It was never my intention to deceive you."

"I know." He still looks drawn and weary, expression ancient for his age, barren of the flushed joy of his youth.

"On the day of our last battle, I was wounded, seriously injured. I thought I was going to die, so I told my men to leave me and flee. They didn't want to, even though they knew I was right. But Hanxin, you remember I wrote to you about him, he told them to stand fast. He wanted my death to count. So he took my regalia and left me with his own ordinary soldier's uniform. He bound my wounds and hid me from the Earth Kingdom soldiers. There wasn't time to get me to safety. He left me there and led the men himself. The enemy, thinking he was me, followed. Hanxin was killed, but not before he had defeated many enemies in his last stand."

Zuko frowns, deep in thought. His eyes brighten suddenly, intense gaze fixed on Lu Ten as he comes to some brilliant conclusion. "Lu Ten, Hanxin is alive! I met him last winter in Kanto."

_What? How…? _

Zuko reaches forward to clasp his hands tightly, earnestly. "It's true! He rescued Aang and me when the police were chasing us down for stealing fireworks…" He trails off, quailing slightly under Lu Ten's semi-amused, semi-disapproving look. "Well, _anyways, _he told me that you were betrayed by one of your men, leading to your fall in battle, and that he saved you at nearly the cost of his own life. After you were presumed dead, he deserted and returned home. It was completely due to chance that we even met that night."

He gives Zuko's hands a quick, dazed squeeze and releasing them, too shaken to maintain much of a grip. "I can't believe it. This is…" He brings his hands up to his pallor-stricken face, definitely not to hide tears of joy, and exhales heavily through the gaps in his fingers. _This is too good to be true. _The candle flickers, volatile flame reacting to his emotional state, and the light shines iridescent through a film of tears, blinding him until he blinks them away.

He looks back to Zuko, realizing how many more questions lie hidden in the news he's been inundated with. "Betrayed?"

Zuko shakes his head. "He didn't say who, or how. Lu Ten, he's… he's changed from however you remember him. He's taken the name Hanyu, 'cold rain'. I didn't make the connection at first."

_Hanyu. So he's retained his penchant for theatrics; that, at least, has not changed_, Lu Ten thinks with fond sadness.

"Also, he's lost his voice. At least, I think it must be so," Zuko says gravely. "I doubt he wouldn't have spoken to me if he still could, knowing who I was. Everything he related to me was through writing. Again, I don't know how or when that happened." He scoots over to Lu Ten's side, shoulders pressed together, refusing to be excluded from the turmoil swirling through Lu Ten's heart. "I'm sorry, Lu Ten. I gathered that you and he were…"

Lu Ten finds his own voice again and nods. "We were… closest to each other's hearts throughout the years we fought together. For him to have survived without me… I can't imagine the anguish he's suffered."

Zuko slings an arm around him, and they sit together in quiet comfort for a time. Lu Ten closes his eyes and rests his head on Zuko's shoulder. The gentle churn of the rippling waves around them, the swishing of Eely's tail as it whips through the water behind Appa, the slow in and out of Zuko's breaths, all calm him and ease his stunned heart into serenity.

"It's still a long ride to Ember Island, and even longer from there to Kanto," Zuko says sensibly. "Let's rest today, and then tomorrow, you can go to him."

He nods mutely, loathe to say much more, to rupture that peaceful bubble of silence and reminiscence. _Hanxin… I will see you again. _

At length, Zuko shifts, restless; he never could stay still for long. "I interrupted you. What happened after you fell in battle? How did you lose your memory? How did you get back to the Fire Nation?"

Lu Ten sighs, knowing he must come to terms with the painful truths of his past at some point. "The battlefield was a swarm of fallen men, but somehow, I was found by Earth Kingdom soldiers taking prisoners and brought back to Ba Sing Se. They thought I was an ordinary soldier and probably would have killed me but for a man named Long Feng. He was the head of a secret police force called the Dai Li, and he figured out that I was actually the Fire Prince that everyone thought had been killed. That changed the game from speedy execution to long and protracted torture."

Now that he thinks about it, that does explain the aches in his shoulder every time he overexerts himself, remnants from his time spent with the Dai Li. He watches Zuko's face contort into a rictus of pain and rage—this will be difficult. "Uh, no need to get into that too much. It wasn't _too _terrible, a lot of dislocated shoulders, controlled strangulation, mind games, your average fare for a prisoner of war." Zuko's expression doesn't ease up much, and he hurries on, trying to skip the gory details.

"I honestly didn't have much information to give them." That's a blatant lie, but it's prettier than the truth, and he doesn't want to reveal to Zuko how he gave up all the Fire Nation secrets he was privy to, spirit weakened beyond salvageable hope. "Eventually they gave up. I lost track of time, but it must have been a few weeks, maybe a month. I don't know why they didn't just kill me."

"I'm glad they didn't," Zuko whispers fiercely.

"I'm glad too." Appa seems to indicate his approval too with a long growl.

"So then, they tried brainwashing me. Long Feng had this hypnosis thing going on… it's impossible to describe. It's like lying on a bed of hot coals but not feeling anything. I knew I should be terrified and trying to fight the hypnosis, but all I could do was look back at him and repeat what he said. I'm fuzzy on the details, but by the end of it all, I was convinced I was an Earth Kingdom citizen. Actually, Long Feng had me rehabilitated into Ba Sing Se as a tea shop assistant named Mushi."

"Mushi? But that was the alias you gave Master Piandao!"

"Yes, it was, and believe me, he saw right through it. Long Feng must have thought it would be easier to condition me to respond to a name I'd used before. I stayed at the tea shop in the Lower Ring for about four years. Towards the end of that time, I started to realize something wasn't right. I don't know what triggered it, maybe the hypnosis was wearing off. But then, you wouldn't believe who showed up."

Zuko quirks a lip in interest. "Who? Someone I know?"

"Yes, in fact. You've met Jet, haven't you? He spoke of you a few times." Lu Ten narrows his eyes at his cousin, who is anomalously blushing like a tween on his first date. "Zuko?"

"Um." He clears his throat. "Yes, Jet. We've, uh… yes, we've met. He led a group called the Freedom Fighters. Aang and I stumbled across them during our travels, but we didn't stay long."

"…I see." Lu Ten makes a note to himself to follow up on that later. "He did mention you, and how serendipitous it was that he met both of us over the course of the years. In any case, he was the one to break me out of the Dai Li's hold and escape Ba Sing Se."

He goes on to explain how he and Jet connected and the details of their travelogue at length. Hours pass, the moon's chariot crosses the heavens, and dawn begins to ease itself in, while Zuko looks ever more astounded at his adventures. Lu Ten wonders how they compare with the Avatar's journey. That must be nothing short of an epic saga.

"I can't believe it," Zuko says when Lu Ten concludes, the first rays of sunrise kissing his weary eyes. "It's amazing how all these moving parts around the world came together to reunite us. Can _you_ believe it?"

Lu Ten laughs, having dearly missed that youthful incredulity and wonder that so faithfully characterizes Zuko. "The evidence is right before your eyes, cousin. I promised I would come back to you, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Zuko says simply. His smile is beautiful, outshining the weak beginnings of the sunrise, inviting like the lambent glow of a beacon on a distant peak, welcoming Lu Ten back into his life. "And you have."

LLL

They finally draw near to Ember Island, arriving on an empty beach, a house rising on the slope beyond the private waterfront. He remembers this vacation home well; it belongs to Prince, no, _Fire Lord _Ozai (_still need to find out how _that _happened). _Lu Ten's father owns an entire island about fifty miles north of here, but they rarely went there after his mother passed, preferring instead to visit Ember Island with Zuko.

"We haven't been in years; I doubt my father remembers this house exists," Zuko says as Appa and Eely lazily crawl up the beach.

"If that's the case, then why is there a light burning in that window?" Lu Ten observes astutely.

Someone seems to be home. "That's strange." Zuko looks up at the light. "I suppose we'd better check it out… quietly."

They sneak up to the edge of the property, footsteps muffled in the soft sand, and circle around the wide steps leading up to the grand porch.

_Over there, _Zuko mouths, pointing at the bright window, the only evidence of the house being occupied. Lu Ten nods and lets him take the lead, tiptoeing through vegetation and neatly paved garden paths. Zuko hoists himself up to the balcony, and Lu Ten is about to follow when they are interrupted.

"Who's there?"

_Oh shit—_Zuko reacts quickly, dropping down from the railing, catlike and stepping in front of Lu Ten, his reflexes trained to defend. However, Lu Ten recognizes the stooped silhouette that cringes away from him, and the voice that quavers like the shaky glow of a lone lantern held aloft.

"Riku." His old valet, who had served him since he was ten years old, peers at them, suspiciously, then with growing disbelief. Perhaps his age delays his reaction? Zuko and Lu Ten step more fully into the light, and that does it for the aged Riku. A basket of apples drops from his arms, the uneven plunk of falling fruit like Lu Ten's erratic pulse upon their discovery. Riku is now the first person from his pre-war life who knows that he is back.

"Prince Zuko? Prince _Lu Ten?" _

They smile in tandem. It's been so long since anyone has had cause to refer to them in the same breath, inseparable, as they used to be. It's like being home again.

LLL

"You two gave me such a shock, turning up at the crack of dawn like this," Riku blusters, stomping around the kitchen as if supremely put upon by their presence. "You could have sent word ahead to give me time to tidy things up and make it actually habitable."

"Right. Because you would have believed a message telling you that the two Fire princes, one long dead and one a known traitor to the crown, were coming to stay," Zuko states skeptically. "Why are you here anyways, Riku? I can't imagine my father spends much time on vacation, between all his plans to take over the world."

"I was banished, Prince Zuko, just like you," the old man says sternly. He points, and they sit themselves down at the table like the rowdy young children they used to be, orderly and obedient in anticipation of breakfast.

"You wouldn't have known of this, but all your house staff were dismissed from the palace after you were exiled to the Earth Kingdom. Most of us had never worked outside of the palace, and none of us would be able to find employment as former members of your household."

Zuko nods, remembering the dictates on guilt by association—through no fault of their own, his former servants would be considered outcasts, at least within the capital. They would have to start from nothing in another place, without families or friends, from the bottom up. He swallows nervously, guilt gnawing at his ribs as he wonders how they are all doing now.

"General Iroh interceded with the Fire Lord and managed to secure a less dire fate for me on account of having served Prince Lu Ten in the past. So I got shuffled away here on the pretext of taking care of the summer house, which stays empty year-round. It pays well, but it's lonely as the grave."

He plops a fresh, fragrant steamer down on the table, and gods, Lu Ten has missed home food. Fried gold buns and plain silver ones, he nearly scalds himself picking one up.

"Fire anchovy sauce?" Riku is right at his elbow, remembering his old favorites.

"_Please." _

They devour breakfast, both happy beyond measure to have this tiny slice of home with them. It's comforting and at the same time alienating to realize how long they've been away from any sense of the familiar. Riku frets about airing out their old bedrooms ("heaven knows you'll be eaten alive by dust mites!" "dust mites eat dust… not people"), but Zuko reassures him that it's temperate enough for them to sleep outside tonight.

They spend most of the day camped out in the grand pavilion in the garden, lazing in its cool shade, not wanting to do anything but enjoy each other's presence. Appa chews his cud nearby, and Eely curls up in a ball, napping in the courtyard under a defunct fountain.

Zuko tells him about all that's transpired, starting from Lu Ten's apparent death in the war, and going downhill from there, at least until his disastrous Agni Kai and banishment. Lu Ten resists the urge to get up right now and travel to the palace to give Ozai a good taste of his own medicine. Zuko snorts at the grievously murderous expression that's probably lining his eyes right now and pokes him in the shoulder, unperturbed.

"He's a shit father. I always knew that deep down. Uncle Iroh was more of a father to me than he ever was. Honestly, I think my banishment was the best thing that could have happened to me." Lu Ten raises an incredulous eyebrow. "No really—it was a wakeup call that forced me to realize that nothing I do could ever win his affection. Nor should I try."

Must their family be so lackadaisically self-aware of its own dysfunction? Well, at least he and Zuko are doing their best to mend it now. He flops down, stretching out luxuriously on his side; the stone beneath his cheek is cool and soothing. He looks up at Zuko, a pleasant sideways view that quickly grows tiring as he has to crane his head upwards. He lets his gaze drop, closing his eyes.

"I've missed this," Zuko says softly. "All of this." Lu Ten knows what he means.

* * *

**ZUKO**

It's got to be about midnight by the time Zuko finishes telling his rambling account. Lu Ten regards him mildly, backlit by a dizzying array of candles and incense burners—Zuko's not sure what mood Riku was going for in providing all these scented accoutrements. He plucks a freshly picked peach from the basket beside him, tossing aside the stem, leaves still attached, and Lu Ten does the same. The tangy juice elates his taste buds, and Lu Ten smirks, thinking of the metaphors the poets love to use.

"You and Aang, huh?"

Zuko blushes, quick and sure, having skirted around the topic with shy reticence during his narrative. He's certain that Lu Ten can pick out threads and fraying edges, stolen moments during their timeline when their relationship began to change, but he's avoided being too forward about it.

"Relax, you should know I approve wholeheartedly. It would be quite hypocritical of me if I didn't. You two epitomize the love of the shared peach." Lu Ten illustrates the proverb with a generous bite out of his own half-eaten peach. "I'm glad for you."

"So am I." Zuko fiddles with the discarded stem and leaf.

"You've grown so much."

"You're the one who said I would," Zuko reminds him. "Change is the only constant, remember?"

"Yes, it is. But I wasn't expecting our lives to change quite so much."

"These things happen for a reason."

"You believe in destiny, then?"

Zuko looks up at the stars, where apparently fate is written. "I believe it was our destiny to meet again."

They sit together in silence for a time, sprawled on the steps beneath the stars, as content as can be. Lu Ten's eyes are closed when he looks back. He rises and pads over to his cousin's side. "Come on, up. Appa makes a nice bedroll."

"Hm." Lu Ten allows himself to be guided gently to his rest.

"Sleep, cousin. All is well." He settles himself onto another of Appa's legs.

"Okay. I love you, Zuko. Goodnight," Lu Ten murmurs.

Zuko waits until his breaths even out before saying it. "Love you too." He feels like an idiot, but an unbelievably happy idiot, so he'll take it.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm almost teary now that I've finished such a milestone in the story. You'll see if you read the writing notes linked below, some parts of the chapter have been written since May 2016, and various foreshadowing elements have been present in other aspects of the story for literal years. All this time I've been holding these things close to my chest, and I FINALLY get to share it with you all! Ah!

Okay, enough :) drop a kudos or a comment and shower me in love please :3 See the notes to learn about the writing process for this chapter and my thoughts about their relationship, and juicy tales about half-eaten peaches, etc.

Archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/50001392


	6. LU TEN: Voice Like Silk

_21 May_. **LU TEN **

In the morning, he tries to teach Zuko lightning redirection and lighting bending—emphasis there on _tried_. The redirection bit's fine; it's purely theoretical movement, he's not going to shoot lighting at his cousin to test his skills. But as for actually generating lightning…

"Oh, not again!" Zuko grouses after being flung halfway across the beach for the third time in a row by generating an explosive blast instead of pure white lightning. "You always made it look so effortless."

_Not anymore, _Lu Ten thinks as he cradles his aching right shoulder, subtly masking the pain by pretending to itch at the area. "It's really not," he says, lofty and grand in his wisdom. "The trick is—"

"Practice makes perfect, I know," Zuko recites dully. "It sucks, being the black sheep of the family, the only one who can't do lightning."

"The black sheep?" Lu Ten scoffs. "You're the _Avatar. _You have all the elements at your disposal, plus our amazing new dragon-given powerups. Speaking of which, we need to practice that too. Don't think you're getting out of doing your forms just because we're on vacation."

Zuko groans but complies.

"I realized something," he says thoughtfully after they finish the first iteration. "Before this, the source of my firebending was fear. Remember when I first did it?"

"Of course. It's what sparked my memories in the first place."

"I was afraid, and that gave me courage, but only up to a point. It became a paralytic. I was always afraid of my father or Azula, and it set me back. Losing you, and my mother, and all stability in my life didn't help. It got worse after my father burned me. Then Azula shot me with lightning, and it was like I was afraid of fire itself because of who wielded it against me."

"Where does your firebending come from now?"

Zuko considers. "From joy and happiness at your renewed presence in my life. I haven't been this happy in _years." _

Lu Ten expected as much, but he forces himself to caution Zuko, knowing how it is to throw all of his hope and deliverance behind one mortal being. "Where else do you find that joy? Say I were to disappear from your life again. Where would you find joy?"

"You won't, though," Zuko vows, full of the same optimism and blinding faith he had in Lu Ten as a child following his older cousin through the rivers and lakes of the fertile land. "Once is enough. I won't lose you again."

He tightens his lips briefly, knowing he can't talk his young cousin down on this point. _Oh, Zuko. _

"After all this is over, you should be Fire Lord." At an incredulous glance from Lu Ten, he perseveres. "I mean it. If it weren't for my father seizing the throne, it would have been Uncle's, and then yours. I don't want it. Being the Avatar is quite enough of a responsibility, thank you very much."

Lu Ten sighs. "I don't know that that would be a massively popular move. Fire Lord Ozai is bound to have his supporters. Behead a serpent and its body still prevails. Besides, there's still the slightly niggling question of how we're going to defeat him and the entire Fire Nation army with Sozin's comet on their side."

"You met Jeong Jeong, didn't you?" Lu Ten nods. "The White Lotus has been busy. We ran off on this little escapade to get our firebending back, but after this, it's business as usual. Regroup with the crew at Ba Sing Se, catch ourselves up on all the preparations, strategize on the spot… oh, and Uncle will want to see you again."

_Father… _It's been so long. Even before his fall in battle, Lu Ten had been separated from his father for several months, each leading different encampments, their duties keeping them apart. It will be odd to see him once more, still in the context of war, but under much different circumstances.

LLL

"All right, cousin, I can tell you're getting antsy and just want to go see the love of your life." Zuko states the obvious. "Let me give you something before you go. Two things, in fact."

Item no. 1: his dual broadswords. "We're just going to keep doing this, aren't we?" Lu Ten inspects his old swords with amusement. "Playing this eternal game of pass the swords."

"Oh, you can keep those," Zuko dismisses. "You need them more than I do. I'm the Avatar, remember?"

Lu Ten quirks an eyebrow at this underhanded quasi-insult. _How quickly they grow up,_ he laments. _And learn to disrespect their elders. _

"That's rich, coming from you," he retorts. "Who was it now who couldn't produce a shred of lightning?"

Zuko shakes his head, unfrazzled. "That will come with time, I know it. My chakras aren't exactly in the best shape right now, but it's not something that happens overnight. I'll keep working on it."

He marvels at how mature his cousin has become. Once upon a time, Zuko would mope and grumble and lose sleep over not being able to firebend the first time he tried. Now he's far more willing to give himself time to grow and learn. _And yet that's what we don't have,_ he mourns. _On the verge of all-out war once more, and I lost all those years we could have spent together, wasted._

No. 2: "Uh, thanks," Lu Ten says with some confusion as at the proffered item, a beautiful headpiece with twin gold flames styled to a tapered tip. "This is exactly what I need to complete my look."

"It's not a fashion statement," Zuko says, expression severe. "It's the coronet of Avatar Roku, and once belonged to Fire Lord Sozin when he was crown prince."

Lu Ten takes it with awe, observing the way the burnished metal catches the early morning sun. It's simple but elegant, a statement of Zuko's faith, in him, in their chance to prevail, in the good that must persevere amid these dark times. It is a promise and a pledge of allegiance and a seal of office all in one.

He bows gravely. "Thank you, Zuko."

* * *

**HANYU**

It's a good day to get the lotus wine out. Hanyu frowns at the mid-afternoon sky from his window. Storm clouds are gathering, though he knows from experience that they won't linger long, moving on to other parts as if reluctant to shed their rain here. The wine, warmed over a lonely hearth fire, will chase away the faint coolness in the air.

The fire lilies are in glorious bloom; they line the surrounding area in a vast circumference, some of the fields planted by him, others the result of nature's generous hands. They brighten his mood a little as he heads home after digging the wine up from in front of Lu Ten's memorial. He does not allow himself to loiter, having already paid his respects on Qingming Festival.

As he draws near the house, he notices something strange. Someone approaches from the opposite direction, about his height, dressed in neat though nondescript grey and red, the strap of a shiny scabbard slung across his chest, sword hilts peeking out over one shoulder. Who could it be?

He hefts the jug a little more securely in his arms and squints at the figure. As the distance between them decreases, his eyes deceive him.

There's no other explanation. He is imagining his love, long dead, standing before him alive as he has not been for years. What can this be except his mind going rogue and showing him images of his departed love so out of context?

He looks so real, though, and Hanyu cannot tear his eyes away. His love walks toward him through a field of fire lilies, and his smile is no less brilliant than the flowers around him, open and welcoming. Even as Hanyu denies what his eyes see, a tiny sprout of hope takes root in his heart.

_Stupid, _he scolds._ You have seen him like this before in your mind's eye, heard his voice in waking dreams. You are a fool to think this is anything more than a cheap imitation of your memories. _

They are at his door now, Hanyu still clutching the wine, the hallucination still smiling benignly, beaming at him.

"Hanxin, my love." It speaks. "I've come back to you."

His voice is different, rougher, deeper, wearier and yet light with the joy he would always reserve for his lover, unfettered and boundless. He is close enough to see, to hear, to touch, and Lu Ten does just that, striding forward, taking Hanyu's shoulders in his hands to pull them closer. He recoils, disbelieving—his hallucinations have never been solid enough to touch.

This can't be real, yet the disappointment and hurt in Lu Ten's eyes could not be more concrete. "Hanxin?"

No. No, it can't be. He's losing it. The more he feeds this hallucination, the worse it will become. He has to get away. He pushes the mind-Lu Ten away, deceptively solid, and ducks inside the house, slamming the door firmly, safe from his own crumbling mind.

* * *

**LU TEN**

_Why? _He stares at the closed door before him, the one he loves hidden behind it, unwilling to face him. _Why?_

He sinks to his knees in the gravelly dust. He could probably force his way in, but that has never been the way with them. Even when they'd argued long ago during the war, they could never stay away from each other for long. So what is preventing Hanxin from recognizing him?

Hanxin had looked at him as if he were a ghost, a recollection of happier days. Or perhaps he's angry that Lu Ten's been gone for so long, alive but far away, not knowing of the other's existence for most of the time they've been apart. Guilt knocks at his heart, each soulful rap an echo reverberating from the door that he does not dare approach, like the splattering tap of each raindrop on the packed earth under his knees as it begins to rain.

_Hanxin… please._

The door flings itself open, Hanxin appearing to him like a wrathful messenger of the gods, and Lu Ten has a split second to witness the cold fury in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw before Hanxin yanks him up from the ground. A dizzy whirlwind of events: he feels the strength of the hand that seizes him by the collar and pulls him into the house, the determination in the arms that slam him against the door, wrists crushed in place by his head under a barely controlled grip. He meets those trembling eyes, their faces level (that, at least, has not changed, he thinks with odd relief).

"Hanxin…" he says softly, unable to summon any explanation or excuse to his lips, not when his love is looking at him like a spooked wolf afraid for its life and attacking first.

Hanxin stares at him, at his face, refamiliarizing himself with Lu Ten's features, speechless but not dumb, the tremor of his lips and drumskin-tight stretch of his eyelids, eyes almost popping. It is painfully clear that he cannot, does not dare believe this.

"It's me. It's really me," he breathes, low, soothing. "Look."

He tugs one hand loose from that slackened grip and pulls his shirt up, bare skin beneath nothing that Hanxin hasn't seen before, except—

"You saw the wound from the spear that pierced me in our last battle." He holds his shirt up just far enough to expose the area under his right ribcage. "But you've never seen the scar that it left."

Trembling fingers brush the edge of the scar, the one he hadn't had the gall to show Jet out on the lake. Its shape is irregular, three inches wide at its maximum, the wound having ripped deeper and wider when the spear was pulled out than when it went in. The scar tissue there is pale pink, thick, rough to the touch, and utterly unknown to Hanxin.

* * *

**HANYU**

He sees the place where Lu Ten was stabbed by an enemy soldier in an unguarded moment, the blade narrow and thin enough to slip between his armor. He remembers the wound gushing, unstemmed, over his frantic hands, trying to keep his love from bleeding out. But he has never seen the scar left by that wound, a mark of survival, of long years spent carrying both the physical and emotional fatigue left on him by the war and all they have endured.

He reaches out, fingers shaking as hard as they did that day on the battlefield with Lu Ten dying under his hands. He feels the scar, its ropy ridge rising to meet his touch, rough and unrefined. Lu Ten's skin is warm and dry under the pads of his fingers, and he feels his own pulse reflected in them as he presses down.

Finally, he is incontrovertibly convinced. Lu Ten is alive, standing before him, yet he is afraid to succumb to that urge and embrace him fully. It is as if the long years of separation have caused them to forget how they used to be around each other.

He is hardly aware of sinking to the floor, Lu Ten following him down, unable to support himself in the wake of this earthshattering revelation. Lu Ten is alive, but how? And where has he been all this time? Why didn't he come home?

_Why did you leave me here all alone?_

"I never wanted to leave you. I never intended to be apart from you for so long."

He wonders if he has somehow overcome his mutism and voiced his question aloud—no, that's impossible. But the impossible has happened today.

"It's a long story, but you deserve to know it," Lu Ten begins. "Do you want to hear it?"

Hanyu nods, almost against his will. He wants to know, but at the same time, he is afraid, of what Lu Ten has endured, what has kept him from returning all these years, because he _knows _his love would not willingly stay away. Not after everything that has transpired between them, not after they've declared what they mean to each other.

* * *

**LU TEN**

It is different from telling Zuko. It's not that his cousin can't handle the extent of what happened to Lu Ten these past few years, but rather that he owes it to Hanxin to disclose how he suffered, how the grief Hanxin has felt all this time was shared by Lu Ten thousands of miles away without either of them knowing it. In some twisted way, their bond persisted despite all adversities, allowing them to experience the same horrors.

So he tells Hanxin all, how he found himself in the hands of the Dai Li after that disastrous last battle, how they tortured him and wrought his mind in such twisted ways that he practically lost himself before the end. How they led him to believe that Hanxin was dead and that his own life was no longer worth living.

"I nearly wouldn't have made it back," he chokes out, not daring to look at Hanxin, who has made no effort to communicate his reactions throughout these anguished recollections. It is as if he is afraid to let the flood of his emotions run rampant and sweep them both away. For that, Lu Ten is almost grateful. He doesn't know if he would be able to continue otherwise.

"I came so close to ending it all." He remembers the sprig of mourning blossom almost within his grasp, only to be tragically withdrawn, his hopes with it. "Until Long Feng decided that it would be better to keep me alive under a different identity. He took my memories: of the Fire Nation, of Zuko, my family, my whole past life, including you."

It is perhaps the greatest guilt to consume him, failing in the one thing he had promised Hanxin: to never forget him, to always remember and cherish him, unlike a fickle lord of dynasties past who discarded his most faithful, foul-weather friend once the storm clouds cleared.

"I'm sorry, Hanxin. I tried to resist it, but I was too weak. I forgot you." He closes his eyes, succumbing to the memory of Long Feng standing before him, the single lantern circling him and stealing his mind away.

He lifts his eyes to his love's face, and what he sees yanks his heartstrings in agonized knots. Hanxin remains as motionless as stone but for two tears that leak their way out like the trickle of a failing fountain. His hands rest in his lap, clenched until his knuckles stand out sharply. His eyes widen, and behind the surface of stinging tears bubbles a current of desperation, of the madness of long grief and wounds of the soul newly opened.

"Hanxin…" He cannot stop himself from leaning in, longing to kiss away that pain and despair. That is all it takes for the dam to burst, for the floodgates of his sorrow to fly open, and with unmeasured force, he seizes Lu Ten's hands, tugging him forward into a kiss so uncontrolled that his knees would buckle were he standing.

Hot breath, an avid tongue meeting his own, gripping fingers in his hair, a kiss of utter abandon that he doesn't think Hanxin has ever displayed. He's always been staid and supportive, a cornerstone of strength and solidarity.

Lu Ten knows the why of this untempered spiral as Hanxin clutches him tighter, arms blanching white where desperate fingers grip with the fear of losing again. Pain drips from him, the pain of five years of mourning and self-flagellation and lost life and love. Lu Ten hears it in every hitched breath when their lips part, tastes it in the blood drawn from biting kisses, feels it in every tug on his hair like a lifeline.

Strong hands pull at the front of his shirt, dragging him to his feet, backing him up blindly, and he registers his knees running into something before he falls backwards onto Hanxin's bed.

"Hanxin… _Hanxin…_"

Even as Hanxin pushes him down against flexible bamboo slats, Lu Ten feels him withdraw, hands under his shirt inexplicably pausing in their ravage, clenching into immobility. The lips covering his own retract into stony rigor, then pull away entirely. A shaking breath, eyes closed and face turned away in anguish.

_Oh, my love. _

It is not an easy transition, he imagines. There will be time for their unbridled passion of clouds and rain, the drunken familiarity that they had with each other once upon a time, but later. For now, Hanxin needs stability and comfort, and above all, to know that Lu Ten is not leaving him again, that he does not need to claim every intimacy he can in a frenzied sprint for fear of losing what he's so recently regained.

"Here, love, come up here," he urges, sliding backwards onto the bed so that Hanxin is no longer hovering awkwardly over him on the edge. Hanxin follows, almost unsure of what he's doing, and Lu Ten tugs him up the last few inches to lie beside him, face-to-face. His breaths still stagger, too overwhelmed with emotion to regulate themselves. Lu Ten squirms closer, close enough to tuck Hanxin's head under his chin and settle an arm over his back.

He presses a long kiss to that wild hair, and gradually, those ragged breaths slow and adhere to a gentle rhythm, even and unlabored. Hanxin lifts one limp arm to return his embrace, snuggling as close as their bodies will allow. They breathe each other in, revel in the long-awaited reunion of their tandem heartbeats.

LLL

He finishes telling his story, of what happened after he was brainwashed, of his dreary life in Ba Sing Se, and of Jet, who broke into the monotony of his fake identity and bodily dragged him from that city of falsehoods. He tells Hanxin of their protracted travels, all that they'd seen and experienced, and how he'd made it to the Sun Warriors' island thanks to Admiral Jeong Jeong's advice. How he'd reunited with Zuko and resumed his firebending and his memories in a miraculous twist, and finally how he made it to Hanxin's doorstep.

Hanxin asks some questions, tracing light characters on whatever part of Lu Ten he can most easily reach, his phrases crisp and concise. More than once, Lu Ten gets distracted by the sensation of callused fingertips lulling him away from their conversation, but he powers on through to finish telling his tale.

For the most part, though, Hanxin is content to listen, and then to peacefully coexist as the events of the day overtake their thoughts. They drift past each other in consciousness, half awake and half asleep, weary from the emotional exertion of the afternoon but not wanting to waste their time together in dreams. Lu Ten turns to his newly unearthed memories, recalling each one like a rare treasure. Every moment he has ever spent with Hanxin is precious; he cannot forget a single one.

He remembers so much. The first time they met aboard the ship to Ba Sing Se. The first time Hanxin saved his life in his arrant duel against Colonel Mongke. The first song he ever heard Hanxin sing, "Leaves from the Vine". The first battle that Hanxin helped him win with nothing but the power of his divine song. Neither of them quite knew it at the time, but that day, Hanxin defeated more than just the enemy soldiers with his voice like silk. He conquered Lu Ten's heart, thoroughly and utterly, without hope of ever regaining it.

"Do you remember 'When the Wind Rises?'"

Hanxin hm's, a low, steady sound as if he's just been awoken and has to think about it. He nods lethargically at length.

"It's only just occurred to me how apt it was, though you didn't know how so when you first composed it." How serendipitous that Hanxin's verses should come true years after being brought into sound and life. "Sing it for me?"

It only takes him a moment to remember, but a moment is long enough for Hanxin to tense into tight cords of muscle under his hands, no longer relaxed and pliant.

"Oh, no… my love, I'm so sorry, I forgot," he whispers. _Gods, I'm an idiot, _he chastises himself. " I didn't mean to anguish you… forgive me."

Hanxin touches the tips of his fingers to Lu Ten's lips in quiet remonstrance. _Don't be sorry. _

"_I'll_ sing it then," Lu Ten declares, longing to make up for his misstep. He can never compare with Hanxin, but he will give it his best effort. He modifies a few phrases here and there, hindsight casting its illuminating glow on reality and how things turned out for them.

_Change is the only constant on this earth_

_Chaos strikes fear into hearts like a disease_

_The blood still flows, forgotten, without worth_

_The blaze incinerates all hope for peace. _

The blaze still threatens, Lu Ten knows; Sozin's comet casts a long shadow over them, but he doesn't want to think about that now.

_Swords of betrayal cut me off from my love_

_With no will to live my remaining years_

_The palace still towers proudly, high above_

_Oaths of pure hearts rend the night in tears._

He can only imagine, with a slight shudder, the heaviness of Hanxin's shoulders as he faced the rest of his life as one half of a whole, the oaths they swore to each other now broken by death. An endless night, a tear-fed river, but fortunately… no more.

_The old broadswords hang on the wall, untried_

_An endless march, armor stained with wrongs_

_The vision in my mind cannot be kept inside_

_To realize the world's beauty is my heart's song_

He lets his voice swell into the conclusion, his homecoming, returning to Hanxin's side where he belongs. _This is how we were meant to be. _

_The mountains lie like fallen spears; Who can mend Heaven's tear?_

_A spear stained with the martyr's blood: the youth of yesteryear,_

_A lone shadow, returns home without a beacon to light his way_

_Generations to come will commemorate these latter days_

_The wind rises; the clouds scatter._

Change is the only constant. How fortunate, then, that things have finally changed for the better.

LLL

He drags steady fingers up the line of Hanxin's throat, each ring of his windpipe rising to greet his touch. Hanxin hums in response, the vibrations resounding through his throat.

"You had such a beautiful voice. I loved to hear you sing," he whispers. "What happened?"

Hanxin shivers briefly, the motion shrinking his shoulders away as if considering escaping from the conversation. He stays, though, as Lu Ten searches for answers.

"Trauma from the last battle?" Hanxin shakes his head, of course. If the damage had come from external injury, there would be some kind of scar or deformity, but the skin beneath his fingers is smooth and unbroken.

"Illness?" he tries again. There are many grave plagues, after all, that can spare the rest of the body but leave certain organs irreversibly damaged. He has seen such cases in the crowded quarters of Ba Sing Se, where disease spreads like wildfire. But Hanxin shakes his head once again.

"Then what…?"

For a while, it seems he will not tell, but at length, he takes Lu Ten's hand from his throat and moves it to rest over his chest, meeting his eyes in silent revelation.

_Heartbreak._

Oh, Hanxin.

Overcome with grief, he drags Hanxin flush to his side and buries his face in that chest that houses his lover's heart, a fragile thing. Clinging to him with shaking arms, he silently swears to never let it out of his sight again.

The heart is a delicate vessel, irreparable once cracked, but still, he can protect it from further breakage for as long as he lives.

"Hanxin," he murmurs. "Oh, my heart, my own. It's fine if I never hear you sing again. Just having you with me is enough. But Hanxin, all the years past, for you, must have been so, so…"

His own voice breaks, feeling the pain his lover had borne for so long. He who had always loved music and singing as his lifeblood, who could saddle the pure energy of his emotion and feeling into physical sound, words, melody… no more.

Fingers thread through his hair with tender compassion, stroking down the nape of his neck, comforting him wordlessly.

"I can't give you those five years back," he chokes out. "But I can give you the rest of my life, and the next if there is one."

A hand between his shoulder blades, resting there, silent and strong. _Enough._

* * *

**HANYU**

He lies awake long after his beloved drifts off to sleep in his arms. This day has been so unfathomably life-changing, he can hardly close his eyes to rest. With unbearable heartache, he regards a snoozing Lu Ten, his face so relaxed, his whole body unabashedly seeking out Hanyu's own, natural and nonnegotiable.

_I love you._

He can't believe it, still. Even when Lu Ten had promised him the world and the rest of their lives together, he had never imagined his lover here, in his home, in his bed, in his life. They've always been separate, and after Lu Ten's death, impossible.

Love transcends all barriers, it seems. Lu Ten is back, and he allows himself to hope for even more. So much is still uncertain: the war, their future, the world, and yet…

Raindrops patter on the rooftop, quiet and musical in their cadence, an early summer evening's gift to the drought-ridden land. The fire lilies bloom bright, soaking up the moisture from the soil, reveling in the nourishment of warm, loving rain.

He laughs softly, and Lu Ten mm's unconsciously, jostled by his revelation. No more cold winter rain, and no more Hanyu. There is only Hanxin now, faithful once more, forevermore.

* * *

**A/N**:Notes on this chapter: to discuss the etiology of Hanxin's voice loss and some thoughts on foreshadowing. archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/50410289


	7. ZUKO: Ember Island Honeymoon

**A/N**: Explicit sex in the final scene; to skip, stop reading after "marching up the beach with determined steps to reach the house" (it was an odd place to stop but I got tired of messing around with it).

* * *

_21 May. _**ZUKO**

After Lu Ten leaves, he passes the rest of the day in blessed solitude, occasionally broken by chatter from Riku as he wanders through the old house, reliving memories he thought long subsumed by bitterness.

In a thin rectangular box with gold trim, the kind one might use to store old letters, he finds two tablets, each no longer than his hand and half the width. Two names are inscribed on the smooth jadeite: his own and Azula's.

He has no memory of writing these characters, but there they are, the evidence incontrovertible: his scrawled, intransigent script, strokes nearly toppling over each other; in comparison, Azula's brushstrokes are full and neat, fitting their allotted space satisfactorily, not crowded or lopsided.

_She always knew how to fit in the boxes dictated by our family tradition, _he reflects somberly. _Until she didn't. _

"Riku, what happened with Azula after I left?"

The old man putters down the hallway behind him, fixedly intent on making the place presentable as he has been since Zuko mentioned to him that he'd be expecting a visitor tomorrow. He straightens a picture frame hanging over a mirror on the wall. It's a royal family portrait, Zuko and Azula sitting sedately at their parents' feet, all looking solemn and regal and falsely familial.

"I couldn't tell you much more than the average person," he begins. "Just weeks after you were banished, Fire Lord Ozai made the announcement that Princess Azula was the Avatar. And that you had drowned at sea, but that was mainly an afterthought."

_Of course._

"At the time, I was making my own preparations for exile to this place, so I wasn't in a position to do much snooping. After leaving the palace, I kept in touch with some friends on the inside, servants and guards within Princess Azula's entourage. One newsworthy source told me how the princess tried for months to learn earthbending from some scrappy boy they picked up in the colonies.

"Apparently, they tried to make a break for it to seek out the Avatar themselves, against the Fire Lord's orders. Princess Azula was most severely punished for that; the court eunuchs who served outside the throne room told me that the Fire Lord's wrath was terrible to behold. 'Thunder and lightning, a force of nature barely contained by the bonds between father and daughter,' as one of my more poetic friends put it."

_She didn__'__t tell me that. _"You're very well-informed, Riku, for all that you claim to be exiled from your old post."

"It's good to know what goes on in the world," Riku says drily.

He looks back at the neat characters of Azula's name, trying to reconcile them with her new role as arrant traitor to the Fire Nation, just like him. There is so much he does not know about what drove her to renounce their father and seek to help him. She'd told him that she wanted to bring the Fire Lord down because of how he'd turned against her, but Zuko wonders if there's more to it than that. If she genuinely cares for him as a brother, and for the world as a place that will welcome her as a refuge from their ill-begotten upbringing.

_Does the world welcome her, though? _They at the Northern Air Temple certainly hadn't, even less so after she attacked Zuko, and who knows where she is now. He laments that their paths may never cross again, that she will not have the chance to help bring their father down as she wanted.

_We all got a second chance at life, _he considers. _Me, Uncle Iroh, Lu Ten, Hanxin__…__ life didn__'__t stop after we failed. We had help, and we overcame our obstacles. But what about Azula? _

Maybe they will reunite, though. He never thought he would see Lu Ten again, and yet fate conspired for them to run into each other fortuitously once more.

He slips the tablets into his pocket, their combined weight light and comforting. He can only hope for the best.

ZZZ

_22 May. _

The next day, he is halfway through a second iteration of the Dancing Dragon when an angel descends from on high, wingspan blocking out the morning sun for brief moments until Aang lands his glider smoothly a few yards away.

He finishes up with a flourish, a final jet of flame lingering over the tide. Aang smiles, approaching slowly, taking him in with relish.

"You're _glowing_," he declares. "I swear, you have this halo around you; your happiness is _that _palpable."

"Are you sure you're not just seeing what your heart leads you to believe?" Zuko teases. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or something like that?"

Aang laughs lightly, clasping his hands with ardor. "Everything about you makes my heart grow fonder—your absence, your presence, your… indeterminate location…" He trails off, having exhausted the metaphor, but rallies again quickly. "I'm always growing fonder and more loving of you, _always."_

Zuko thinks he is going to melt. "How will you contain all this love in your heart? Won't there be too much to hold?"

"My heart will grow bigger to accommodate it all." With utmost tenderness, he places one of Zuko's hands over that very heart.

"That might not be advisable." He thinks of Katara's many lectures on how to keep his heart healthy, but none of them adequately cover cardiomegaly due to excess of love.

"Too bad. I choose to do this, against medical advice." He folds Zuko into a dizzying kiss, achingly close, his entire body longing for Aang's touch, only to be interrupted by a monumental growl and a very large, wet tongue licking them into oblivion—Appa is overjoyed to reunite with Aang as well.

"Good to see you too, Appa!" He giggles, the dearest, lighthearted sound to Zuko's ears, as they are bowled over by Appa's enthusiasm. They lie where they've fallen in the sand, Aang sprawled across his body, kisses growing lighter but no less passionate as he curls his fingers through Zuko's hair. It is at once devastating and refreshing and definitely PDA.

"Prince Zuko!"

Oh gods, Riku, why now… He unglues himself from Aang to abashedly face his butler, who looks nothing short of elated.

"So _this _is who you were _expecting," _Riku deduces, his emphasis a little too enthusiastic. This is the pinnacle of embarrassment.

Aang retains his sense of manners, at least. "Hi, I'm Aang!"

Riku bows courteously. "Prince Zuko, you should have told me you prefer the southern style. I need to thoroughly prepare your bedroom."

In a panic, Zuko grabs the small basket that Riku came down to the beach to deliver—breakfast, not an interrogation about their love life. "_Thank you_, Riku, Aang and I will be fine from here."

He turns back to Aang, face flaming. "The southern style?" Aang asks slyly, already inferring what it means.

"Fire Nation slang for… you know," he mutters. "Ugh, just eat your breakfast. Look, I even asked Riku to prepare your favorite; I had a feeling you'd stop by today."

Aang finally turns his attention to the food, and his eyes grow wide as ostrich-horse eggs. "Egg custard? You really _do _love me!"

He watches fondly as Aang unwraps the beautiful egg tarts, rich crusts surrounding creamy golden custard, and digs in with gusto. They picnic on the beach, sesame seeds from freshly baked _shaobing _floating away on a gentle sea breeze. Aang picks up the steaming _youtiao, _pulling it apart down the length of the fried dough stick. He puts one end in his mouth and offers the other end to Zuko, who takes it with some trepidation.

"That is not how you eat this," he says sternly.

"Yeff ih ish," Aang persists around his mouthful of _youtiao, _gesturing for Zuko to do the same.

"No, it's…" Okay, maybe a physical demonstration will convince Aang. He starts to chow down on his end of the stick, and Aang, in the spirit of competition, strives to match him bite for bite, only to find that the fried dough is thicker and stiffer than he imagined. He slows his pace, mouth and throat working furiously to catch up. Zuko laughs and breaks off the stick, leaving Aang with most of it.

"That's why you dip it first so you don't choke on your mouthful." He demonstrates by dunking it in the bowl of sweetened condensed milk so that it softens and is easier to eat.

"Hmph." Aang looks miffed at how thoroughly he has been defeated by Fire Nation cuisine, and Zuko can't get enough of how adorable he is as he pouts around a renewed mouthful.

* * *

**AANG**

They decide to sneak into town around noon, so Aang dons his appropriately fiery Fire Nation dress to blend in like a local. He secures his tattoos with a head wrap, knowing that Zuko inexplicably loves how he looks like some kind of vagabond. He does feel a little foolish wearing long sleeves and shoes in this summer weather, but he'll suffer it to accompany his love out.

"But what about you? You can't just wear a hood over your head the whole time; people will be suspicious," he points out as Zuko does exactly that.

"Don't worry, we'll stop by the Ember Island Players first. They'll have what I need."

The Ember Island Players turn out to be a theater group, and Zuko gets a half-mask from a vendor outside the performance hall to cover his scar.

"Look, they're having a performance this afternoon." Aang notices a flier pasted to the side of the stand. "'_The Tale of Bian He, _retold as you've never heard it before! Watch the story of the noble erudite unfold in the modern day, a gripping political commentary that will challenge you to rethink the world as you know it. Don't miss this intellectual, informative, illuminating premier by up-and-coming historical playwright Han Fei, one of the greatest names of our day.' Sounds interesting; we should go see it."

Zuko fastens his mask over his face, eyebrows knitting into a disdainful expression (well, one eyebrow knits itself; Aang can't tell what the other one is doing as it's hidden behind the mask). "I wouldn't put much stock in it_. The Tale of Bian He_ is straight out of pre-dynastic Fire Nation history; it's one of those weird moralistic tales that make you go, 'What on earth were people thinking back then?' That's probably why they billed it as a matinee. Everyone knows the good shows are at night."

"Hm." Aang considers this argument. "Well, it's bound to be cheaper than the evening show."

That, Zuko cannot argue with.

AAA

They get a private box for the half the price of normal evening seats—_see, I was right, _Aang preens. The seats are very nice and cushy, and the balcony is pretty much deserted except for them. Even the floor beneath them is poorly attended; about half the seats are filled. The play begins on time and without fanfare, and as far as he understands it, the storyline is simple.

Many hundreds of years ago, there was a guy called Bian He. One day, he discovered a large piece of jadeite on the mountain. It was a rough piece, but he felt that it was very valuable, so he decided to present it to the king. However, the court experts on jade and other precious stones identified it as worthless, and the king was displeased, so he had one of Bian He's feet cut off as punishment. Bian He and his jade were expelled from the palace and returned home to live in disgrace.

The king died, and his son succeeded him, and Aang doesn't remember any of their names, so let's just call him King #2. Bian He was still alive and still had the jade, and he thought King #2 might be more reasonable than his father. So he brought his jade to the court again to present to the king, but the courtiers again declared it to be worthless, and King #2 was displeased. Bian He got his other foot cut off as punishment and was thrown out of the palace with his jade and oh, you know the drill now.

King #2 died, and his son succeeded him, and Bian He wanted to present the jade to him, thinking he might be more rational than his predecessors. But as he thought of all the times he was rejected and cruelly punished, he wept loudly and at such great length that he exhausted his tears and began to weep blood. Aang is supremely impressed at the special effects at this point and gets distracted trying to figure out how they made the actor's tears red. In any case…

It seems like King #3 was a lot nicer than those before him, and he sent people to ask why Bian He was weeping. According to him, he wept not for the loss of his feet, but for the injustice of the world that caused an honest man to be twice refuted and a beautiful piece of jade to be considered worthless. King #3 was moved by his determination (or maybe just stubbornness), and he ordered Bian He to be carried into the court with his jade.

At this point, Zuko yawns widely and stands up. "Well, that's pretty much it. I can tell you the rest if you like, but there's no point sitting through more lengthy dramatic recitations of poetry that convey the same idea."

"Oh, don't be rude, just sit down," Aang urges him. "Here, you can whisper all the spoilers you want in my ear right now, but I'm still going to watch until the end."

"Ugh, fine."

According to Zuko, King #3 ordered the jade cutters to cut open the jade in front of him, and it turned out to indeed be a beautiful, flawless gem. Bian He was lavishly honored for his gift, and the jade was used to make the king's imperial seal, a symbol of his heavenly mandate to rule. It was lost some time before Sozin's era, but thanks to its origin story, Bian He's jade became synonymous with an item or talent that is not recognized at first.

"Well, that was a good story," Aang says, trying to find some positives. He doesn't want to admit that Zuko was right and it was kind of boring. The action on the stage below catches up after long minutes of Bian He monologuing about how overwhelmed and glad he is to finally receive his reward.

"Bian He's jade was greatly prized by the king, and after much consideration, he had it carved into two separate pieces," the narrator relates. The huge stage prop of fake papier-mâché jade (imagine how heavy it would have been if it were real) is carted away, and in its place, two other sculptures are brought into the spotlight. "The first was a majestic dragon, the king of the heavens and the seas. The second was a dazzling phoenix, a spirit of flame and rebirth."

Okay, so this is a bit different from how Zuko said things went down. An interesting spin, such creative liberty!

"The sculptures were placed at the entrance to the king's palace, and he named them as the guardians of his rule. The dragon was named 'the New Reign', for the king felt that his kingdom had been rejuvenated by the discovery of the jade."

A murmur goes up in the crowd, dissenting voices puzzling over this change of events. At Aang's side, Zuko looks on in disbelief as the narrator continues.

"The king respected Bian He greatly for sticking to his morals and insisting upon the jade's worth. He felt that Bian He had made many sacrifices for his refined and erudite taste. Thus, he named the phoenix 'the Refined Hero.'"

That does it. "Blasphemy!" a shout rings out. The hubbub on the floor below swells and crests. "Treason!" from another corner. "Boo!" —a general consensus from various quadrants. The people rise to their feet, shaking their fists and their heads and overall not seeming to like the play's ending very much at all. _Huh__…__ go figure. _

"Uh, Zuko?" He looks over at his love, who seems stunned into immobility. Zuko blinks quickly and gets to his feet.

"Yeah, they look dangerously close to a riot," he remarks, frowning down at the churning crowd. "Let's not take the stairs."

They find a window and make a discreet exit, landing in the alley along the backside of the performance hall. This way, they manage to avoid the angry masses flooding out of the place and slip back into the peaceful town.

AAA

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?" Aang asks, very much aware that he hasn't understood the full story.

Zuko dons his face mask again now that they're out in the open and gestures them towards a small plaza adjacent to the water, where many beachgoers are milling about, enjoying a late lunch. "Wait here."

Aang sits himself down at a table and entertains himself people-watching until Zuko gets back with a pitcher of lime-mint water and a basket of eggs, the likes of which he's never seen before. Their shells are deep brown and cracked, but they smell delicious.

"Tea leaf eggs," Zuko explains. "Another street favorite—boil eggs, smash them around a bit to lightly crack their shells, then let them simmer in the pot with soy sauce, tamarind peels, anise, and your choice of spices. The sauce seeps in through the cracks, and when you peel them, you can see the patterns left behind." He peels one to demonstrate, and spidery web-like figures swirl on the surface of the egg, an echo of the cracks made in the shell.

Aang takes one for himself, temporarily distracted from the happenings at the theater. They eat in silence for a bit, but he hasn't forgotten his question. At a meaningful look, Zuko sighs and begins to clarify matters.

"I'd never heard of this playwright before today, and I think I understand why now. Han Fei should probably try to keep a low profile or get stabbed down some dark alley the next time he premiers a play like that. And we'll likely never hear of anything from him again—that's about as radical as it gets. I'm surprised the Players agreed to perform it."

"Okay, but why?" Aang asks, picking at the shell of another egg.

"By itself, the story isn't treasonous. But the way he changed it in the end was. The dragon and the phoenix that were carved from Bian He's jade represent me and Azula," Zuko explains.

"What? How?"

"Think. You've seen our names in print before, on the _Children of Fire _advert, months ago." Zuko smiles wanly, recalling their fraught emotions at that time. From his pocket, he takes out two small jade tablets, bookmark-sized and inscribed with what Aang notes to be Zuko and Azula's names.

"The characters used to write 'Zuko' give it the meaning of 'resurrected rule'. In the play, Han Fei named the dragon 'New Reign', a synonym for my name.

"Azula's name is represented by characters meaning 'Elegant Martyr of the Fire Nation'. So Han Fei named the phoenix 'Refined Hero' to represent Azula. Our father really was rather foresighted in naming her this way," Zuko muses.

Aang processes all this slowly. "Wow… that really went over my head. But everyone else seemed to get it immediately."

Zuko shrugs. "That's to be expected. It wouldn't go over so stunningly in a village with a low literacy rate because they wouldn't know what characters comprise our names. But this place is filled with elite vacation-goers who are all too aware of who's who in the upper echelons of society, not to mention how Azula and I have irrevocably tarnished our respective names."

"But what was the point of working you two into the story?" Aang puzzles over this aloud. "He fabricated a new ending, in which you and Azula are the products of this beautiful jade gemstone that was twice passed over by the king… that is to say, the Fire Lord failed to recognize the value inherent in the two of you, and cast you out as useless."

"Exactly." Zuko smirks at the expense of his misguided father. "And look how badly he fucked up. He's made enemies of the wrong people."

"So you think Azula actually turned against him in the end? She wasn't trying to trick you?"

Zuko nods. "He as good as threw her out of the palace with the crippled Bian He, just because she failed to serve his purposes. Azula truly had it worse than me. She had a taste of being the golden child, all throughout our youth, only to have it ripped away from her when she wasn't the Avatar. I wish things hadn't turned out that way for her."

They finish their meal, at a loss for words, wandering deep in thought about a heretical dramatization and its real-life inspiration, into which their lives are inseparably entwined.

* * *

**ZUKO**

The mid-afternoon ocean glimmers and beckons as they arrive back at the estate, and Zuko brightens, dreaming back to memories of playing among the waves as a child with Uncle and Lu Ten, carefree as a dove. The past is the past, and the future unknown, but the present, they can shape like castles in the sand, ephemeral, fleeting, but beautiful even as they crumble.

"Catch me if you can!"

…Aang has a rather more vigorous way of capturing the moment, and Zuko takes off after him, sprinting down the beach like he's trying to catch a criminal. Technically Aang has stolen his heart, so it counts.

He almost catches up, would definitely have had the pesky airbender in hand if he hadn't been laughing hard enough to split a seam in his side. At the last moment, Aang whirls into his trademark air scooter, fleet and versatile, and there's no way he can best his airbending master at his own element unless he uses the Avatar state, which unfortunately is… still not available to him.

Aang runs dizzying circles around him just out of reach before sailing away gaily, a last insolent peek over his shoulder, taunting Zuko.

Very well then. _Think outside the box. Or the element. How do you catch an airbender? _

Aang's trajectory treads the edge of the tide, and Zuko leaps onto the water, feet barely making contact as he bends himself an icy surfboard. He skims the waves, zooming along in an exhilarating race until they're nearly side by side on their respective modes of transport.

"Look at _you_." Aang is half-adoring, half-sarcastic, plotting his next getaway even as Zuko draws level with him. He veers sharply inland, away from the beach, and Zuko anticipates him well. He lets Aang think he's managed to escape for a split second, then with gleeful finality, pulls two long arms of water up and catches Aang around the waist, dragging him back until he's chest to chest with Zuko, trapped in love.

"I've underestimated you, Avatar," he breathes, genuinely surprised. Zuko lets an inkling of pride come to the surface.

"Are you ever going to try and run from me again?" he asks, not meaning for it to sound menacing, but playful.

Aang considers. "Probably," he admits. He relaxes against Zuko's body as the tide recedes and they're left standing on moist sand again. "Just for the fun of it."

"Don't they always say, if you love something, let it go: if it comes back to you, it's yours forever," Zuko recites.

"If I recall, the last time Guru Pathik said something like that, you weren't such a fan."

Zuko sighs, taking Aang's hand and starting them on a mild stroll along the water's edge. "I know. It sounds ridiculous, but I think this is the hardest part of being the Avatar. Facing my father, fighting in the war… all that's doable, but this…"

"Zuko, are you sure you can't let go of me?"

He stops, something in Aang's phrasing strange to him. "What do you mean? I want to achieve the Avatar state as much as any Avatar before me. I… I'm trying, it's just… tough."

_Big understatement, Zuko, way to diminish your efforts. _

"Hm." Aang shakes his head. "Nothing, I just… never mind."

ZZZ

They spend the rest of the afternoon playing on the beach and among the waves, Zuko a little distracted, still pondering Aang's words, but he puts it out of his mind most of the time. He wants to cherish these moments with his love, the gentle present settling around them, rosy and gleaming as the vermilion sunset and Aang's perfectly kissable lips.

He's just separated from another sweet reunion with those lips when Aang says, a little breathlessly, "I have a gift for you."

"Oh?" He hadn't noticed Aang brought anything with him. Is it something small enough to hide in a pocket?

"I brought it when I tracked you to the Western Air Temple, but I hid it under the back edge of Appa's saddle so you wouldn't see it," he explains. "Wait here, I'll go get it."

Zuko waits, curiosity keeping him on edge as he watches Aang breeze away towards the house on his air scooter, glider set across his folded knees, robes billowing in the wind and exposing just a little more of his right shoulder than usual—paradise on earth, ah.

Aang comes zooming back in short order, and at first Zuko doesn't see anything different, but slowly, it becomes clear: he is carrying _two _gliders.

"I made it for you while you were off surfing halfway across the world," he says, holding out a long, polished glider similar to his own, suddenly bashful. "Teo helped with finding old manuscripts that detailed how to make them. But anyways, your airbending is advanced enough at this point, and you've already flown on mine, back in the Sun Warriors' goop trap. You were amazing, by the way, I—uh, I… really wanted to kiss you right then and there but I wasn't sure how you would take it with Lu Ten being there so you know, I uh—"

"Oh dear guru." Zuko takes the glider from Aang, whirling it around with self-assured dexterity so that one end rests across Aang's lips, silencing his nervous tangent. It's beyond endearing, the way they've known their way around each other's hearts for so long at this point, and yet Aang is so shy and tremulous when it comes to giving him a gift.

Aang purses his lips, shrugging the glider off his mouth. "Read the inscription."

Zuko squints at the fine text carved just beneath the upper set of wings. "'Made in Northern Air Temple…'"

"Teo made me put that; he wants to start a business exporting gliders," Aang explains, sounding strained. "I meant the _other_ inscription."

Zuko flips the staff over to read the subtle message there. "'From Sifu Airhead: I think you're pretty neat.'"

"The first time I saw you fly…" He remembers that moment so clearly, and Aang does as well.

"I think that was when I started to fall for you, though I didn't know it yet," Aang murmurs. "You were… amazingly beautiful in your state of wonder, and then _so _charming when I told you that you couldn't learn gliding yet. I don't think I'll ever get tired of—wait, Zuko!"

For Zuko has lost the patience to hear out Aang's heartfelt rambling—there's a time and place for that, and it's _not right now _when there's gliding and flying to be done, guru! Like a cygnet spreading its wings for the first time, he twirls his new glider open and leaps onto the breeze without a moment's delay.

* * *

**AANG**

They fly together in the luminous space between dusk and deep evening, better able to sense one another through the currents in the air than actually see each other against the darkening sky. Dipping, diving, rising, reaching; they soar to indescribable heights, then plunge to skim the foamy waves. Zuko is enchanting in his novice eagerness to try new maneuvers, completing a not-quite-successful corkscrew and jamming his toes into his lower set of wings to avoid dunking himself in the water. Up, up he rises, and Aang follows, mirroring his looping trajectory. Zuko starts to take note, incorporating some of Aang's twists and tugs, accenting his airbending in a way that complements his path and facilitates his frolicking through the air.

It is like their frenetic race along the beach earlier, but in an entirely different sphere, and Aang rejoices and reminisces on how this is so like that day long ago when they flew together, Zuko confined to Appa's saddle, Aang gliding alongside them in overjoyed liberty.

_I love you, _he thinks, devoted, adoring. _Oh gods, I _love _you. I loved you even then. You and your honey-bright eyes and childish fervor. _This is what dreams are made of, and he thanks what gods there are for granting him a glimpse into this otherworld before they return to a nightmare reality. One day and one night—they will make it last.

By some unspoken consensus, they land on the beach a dozen paces apart, and Zuko turns to him, steps hesitant, then stumbling in their frantic rush to get to him. There is fire in his honey-bright eyes and his halting breaths, and Aang welcomes him fiercely with his arms, his lips, their discarded staffs at right angles to each other in the sand, intersecting.

"Aang… oh, Aang. I _want you," _Zuko forces out between kisses, clutching at Aang's shoulders, the nape of his neck, unable to decide where to come to rest.

He grips Zuko's waist tightly, kissing down the taut line of his throat, tight cords of muscle trembling under his skin, longing for any touch. He tilts his chin back, an audible gasp escaping him as Aang worries at the notch between his collarbones with hot teeth and tongue, determined to leave a mark.

"_Aang__…__" _

"Mm…"

Every touch between their heated bodies like the spark of live coals, a warmth to be chased, a passion to be indulged in, to the fullest extent. In the blind ravage of his hands across the sculpted expanse of Zuko's body, he tugs off the sash fastened at his waist, outer layer hanging loose off his shoulders, sliding his hands under Zuko's shirt to seek hot skin and elicit sweet moans of adulation, Zuko shivering under his fingers.

"Aang, please…"

"Hm?" He is too occupied with sliding the shirt off Zuko's left shoulder to reveal the delights of bare skin.

"Let's get indoors, yes?"

…ah. "Yes," he agrees cheerfully. And because he is so giddy with this overflowing love like milk and honey, he pulls Zuko close, almost dipping him in an exaggerated dance, swings his legs over and bodily lifts his beloved into his arms. He cherishes the incensed squawk Zuko emits at this indignity.

"Aang, you deranged airbender, put me down!"

"Nope. I absolutely have to carry you over the threshold, it's the law."

"What are you going on about, let me down." Zuko claws at his back exasperatedly, not putting up much of a real fight. Firebenders are _sooo _contrary; Aang's known this from the beginning of their relationship.

He stoops to pick up their gliders. "Nope," he repeats stubbornly, marching up the beach with determined steps to reach the house.

* * *

**ZUKO **

Riku is tactfully absent as Aang bears him over the threshold, the house engulfed in dusky half-shadows, the sun finally taking its golden glow with it.

"Wow, this is nice," Aang remarks as they reach the top of the stairs and turn to enter Zuko's room.

The place is festooned in candles and heavy-handedly festive accessories. Red silks swoop from the bedposts in coy curves to form a bower over clean sheets, swaying gently in the breeze from the half-open window. Gracefully gauzy netting surrounds the bed, ceiling-height to enclose and protect their repose. The door to the en suite bath is open, and under the rustling overtones of candle wicks and tulle whispering, he can hear the faint pop and ripple of a steaming bubble bath. Aang wriggles his way through the diaphanous curtains, dousing them in the healthy smell of citron oil ("exalted mosquito deterrent, Riku's nothing if not thorough").

He finally deposits Zuko on the bed, looking down at him with an insuppressible smile spreading across his features, and Zuko wonders how he must look in Aang's eyes. The passion from the beach has slightly cooled after their lengthy trek indoors, the evidence still flagrant in the disarray of his shirt and his hair. "Perfect," Aang breathes, hearing the question in his eyes. "I've never seen anything so unearthly."

_There's too many candles in here, that's why I'm feeling so hot and flushed. No other reason at all. _

"_Oh._" Aang reaches for something on the pillows above Zuko's head. "You _are_ very well-versed in the southern style."

He reveals a small container of lube, its contents more ointment than viscous, and winks facetiously at Zuko. Just when he thought he couldn't blush any harder…

Aang bends down to kiss him, staying seated close to the edge of the bed, their lips the only point of contact between their bodies, a light brush, a tentative dip of his tongue, so far from the muddled mess of their earlier entanglement. Zuko wants more, feels almost like tearing out his hair at Aang's sluggish pace.

"_Aang.__"_

"What's the rush?" Aang murmurs mildly. "When you eat your favorite food, you take small bites so you can taste it. When you see a beautiful sunset, you stop and watch it for as long as you can. When you learn a new airbending form, you practice it slowly, putting hours into perfecting it."

He closes in on Zuko's ear, words for him alone. "Time is the most precious gift you can give another person—years of your life, long minutes dedicated in your dreams, a few fleeting seconds of your idle thoughts when you're apart from each other… and oh, _hours _in bed making love. You deserve that much, Zuko."

ZZZ

_"So to reiterate, we're going to take this slowly," Aang prescribes, tapping him lightly on the nose before departing for his nether regions. _

That was fifteen minutes ago, though, and Zuko is desperate. "Please, Aang."

"Hmmm?" Aang hums, gesturing for him to clarify—please what? Zuko would be more articulate, but Aang's humming around a mouthful of his cock, which makes it very hard to focus on moving forward.

"Ah… _ah," _he struggles to reign his thoughts in and wrangle them into some form that's not totally obsessed with Aang's tongue and its wicked turns.

"Try again," Aang advises, pulling off briefly and bringing just the head of his cock to his mouth. He puckers his lips at the tip coyly, a glistening coating of precome coating them and Zuko doesn't think he can take much more of this teasing.

"Oh, come on," he whines. He reaches blindly overhead, too enamored of the way Aang's lips mold themselves perfectly to him to look away, and picks up the lube, all but flinging it down the length of his body to his occupied lover. "Here."

"So impatient." He sits up, strokes a fingertip up the underside of one flexed thigh, and Zuko shivers at the idle touch, electric, exhilarating. "You know why I'm taking so long with you? Other than because I love to watch you squirm?"

"Fuck you, just tell me why and then get on with it."

"Precisely_."_

…_what?_

Zuko mulls this over as Aang takes his time disrobing, shedding pieces over the edge of the bed until he's bare as the day he was born but for his tattoos. They distract Zuko briefly, their long lines hypnotic, and he traces the path that leads up Aang's back as he faces the edge of the bed, wriggling out of his undergarments.

"I love you," he says simply. He has no more sophisticated words to describe the emotion that overwhelms him. "I never thought I'd have this."

Aang pauses, Zuko's hand staying its course up and down his back, resting, regrouping. One hand comes up to dab suspiciously at his eyes.

"Aang…?" He starts to haul himself up to sitting, but Aang reaches out one arm, a palm to his chest firmly keeping him sedate.

"Just some smoke from the candles got in my eye, nothing to worry about."

_Right. _The candles smell like lavender and lemongrass and hardly produce any fumes, but at last Aang turns back to him, calm and relaxed as always. He takes up the jar, unhinging it and swirling a finger through the slick lube. Zuko spreads his legs, expectant, but Aang shakes his head, perhaps not trusting his voice just yet.

With delicate, measured motions, Aang swings one leg around to kneel over Zuko's lower half, taking care to flaunt his hips and more specifically his luscious arousal in Zuko's direct line of view, remaining just out of easy reach. _There's the rascal I know and love. _He wiggles his fingers at Zuko salaciously and without further ado, reaches back to gradually push one into himself.

_Ah, okay. Looks like we're mixing things up a bit. _

"Aang…" He's uncertain as to why he feels the need to whisper. "Are you sure… how are you feeling?"

"Mm… fuck…" Aang's eyes are closed, but his mouth parts open slightly, lips a perfect ring of pleasure. "Ask me again… after I'm through with you."

He falls silent, gaze locked on Aang's radiant form. It is such a treat to watch his lover like this, indulging himself with his fingers and the promise of more, fanning the embers of their mutual desire into flame. Soft sounds of pleasure drift past his lips, the circle of his hips setting an unpredictable rhythm to that music as he changes angles, continually seeking to open and stretch himself beyond his limits.

Zuko finds himself taut with anticipation, worried that this will be over too soon, that he won't have the opportunity to properly appreciate and exalt Aang in bed. This is… not a pleasant problem to have, he ponders, clutching the sheets at his side in mild consternation.

Aang finishes prepping himself at length, smiling down at Zuko, and this is it, no time to worry about inconsequential quandaries. Now, _now, _no turning back.

"Ready?"

Zuko nods, and Aang settles himself over his cock, sinking down relentlessly, hands stabilizing himself on Zuko's chest, and gods, it is _unbearable. _

"Aang... oh, oh Aang," he gasps, unable to verbalize much more than that, the way his love is pushing down onto him. That insufferable heat engulfs his throbbing cock, a perfect fit, like their bodies were made for each other. "Fuck..."

Hips immobilized by Aang's weight, he twists and turns, legs spread wide, feet tangling in the sheets; hands finding purchase on Aang's tensed thighs to either side; his back arches, possessed by unbearable pleasure. He tilts his head up, neck straining to hold him there and better watch the proceedings, and Aang meets his eyes with a mischievous grin.

"So pretty," he whispers. "Honestly, has anyone told you recently how pretty you are?"

He leans down, hands planted by Zuko's head, lips just beyond reach of a sweet kiss. The steady, slow up and down of his lover's body gyrating on his cock is tantalizing, greater pleasures awaiting him just out of his grasp.

Not so out of his grasp, it occurs to him. Maybe Aang just needs a little... impetus to get him going. He slides his left hand up Aang's lovely pale thigh towards his groin, reaching for his prize...

"Ah, uh-uh," Aang cautions. "What did I say?"

_You said a lot of things_, Zuko thinks, blushing as Aang's long fingers encircle his wrists, unremittingly pinning them up by his head, in total control.

"Hm?" Aang queries, but with a piercing look that will not tolerate a non-answer. Zuko turns his head to the side, eyes closed, foolishly trying to hide from The Look. There is no escape from this pleasurable torture.

"You said... _ahhh_—" he chokes out a gasp as Aang clenches around him, a tactic clearly designed to throw him off as endorphins skyrocket and his brain temporarily goes AWOL. "You said to take it slow."

"Yup." There's a devastating smile in Aang's voice as he hones in on Zuko's ear, breath a feathery kiss on the sensitive skin there. "How is it that I'm the one with your cock up my ass, but you're the one getting _fucked_?"

"Ahh—" Zuko has no answers, any cohesive thought process shortchanged by the sudden deluge of toe-curling pleasure as Aang begins to ride him in earnest, his cock thrusting into that tight heat with abandon. Aang maintains his hold over Zuko's wrists, reveling in how absolutely undone his lover is becoming, without constraints, limitless in the push to reach nirvana.

"Fuck_, ahhh…" _No one ever talks about this part, maybe because it's just indescribable. 'It feels good'—sure, it does, but that doesn't even begin to cover everything that 'good' entails. He's drunk, absolutely intoxicated from the sight of Aang, limitless expanses of flushed skin interrupted by canals of blue running down his limbs, undulating with the rhythm of their joining like a heartbeat. He hears the pulse thundering in his ears, tiny eddies and murmurs in the form of Aang's whispers in his ear, his gasps and moans as he pitches forward, almost chest to chest with Zuko, unable to sustain himself either in this wracking cycle of pleasure. The slick of sweat eases the friction between their constant slip and slide, and Zuko pulls loose from Aang's grasp to wrap his arms around his back, dragging them even closer together. Their voices form a divine chorale, tones mirroring each other's, harmonies blending together as one, and _ah, _it is _all too much—_

"Aang… Aang, oh…" He doesn't even know what he is trying to say now. Perhaps all he means to express is how Aang encompasses his world entirely in these fraught moments, how he has no words except Aang's name on his tongue, a solitary extolment to accompany their lovemaking.

"Zuko… _I love you," _Aang gasps out, bent nearly double over him.

They're so close, and Aang presses him into a deep kiss, swallowing up both their cries of pleasure even as they ratchet higher and nearer to climax, just a hair's breadth from that golden moment—

"Aang please, can I…?" he begs, reaching for him anyways, and Aang chokes out his assent, shuddering at his touch as Zuko takes his cock in hand, bringing him to the edge with broad, firm strokes—"Oh _fuck, __**Zuko—**__"_

They've arrived, toppling over the brink together, the instant breathtaking, suspended in time as they clasp each other tightly, too wound up to even think of letting go. They fade, fall, catch each other freely and land in the grounded present, muscles numb from exertion. They shiver as their hearts slow, their skin still flushed like rosy dawn, bleeding heat and warmth and all-consuming passion.

ZZZ

"Come on, up," Zuko urges, wrangling his sleepy lover off of him and into the bathroom. "Bath, then sleep."

"Mm," Aang agrees, barely coherent.

The water's cooled a little, but Zuko heats it up easily to a warmer temperature. The bubbles smell like jasmine and wild gardenia. Aang drowses at his side, head resting on his shoulder, as comfortable as can be.

"What was all that about, you abducting me to bed like a pirate king?" Zuko complains, only now regaining the senses to remember everything leading up to their delightful escapade.

"Wanna marry you, have to carry you," Aang says succinctly.

"…_what._" Zuko does not compute._ "_Wait. The glider staff?"

Aang opens his eyes but shifts his gaze away evasively. "I mean, in Air Nomad tradition, it could be anything: a glider, a set of prayer beads, a newly embellished scroll of the ancients' teachings, a musical composition, so long as you make it yourself. We don't put much stock in worldly possessions, so the ones we do give to our loved ones should have some meaning. I gave you a glider staff that I carved myself, and you accepted it."

"So we're married now?" _I was not informed of this. _

"Well, I don't know how it is in other cultures," Aang feigns ignorance, "but first we typically say something like, 'Will you marry me?' instead of just springing it on the other person. I got carried away and left that bit out…"

"Yes," Zuko says. "Absolutely, yes."

"I haven't asked yet!" There's the beginning of a panic in Aang's voice; this is clearly not how he thought the conversation would go.

"Hurry up then, or I'll get snapped up by someone else. You know there's a very long waiting list for the Avatar's hand in marriage."

Aang sighs deeply, sinks beneath the surface of the water, still sighing, and for a long moment, all Zuko sees of him is the churning and bubbling of water amid the foamy bath.

He emerges, water dripping off of him, wearing a soap bubble cap, resplendent and exquisitely dear to Zuko as he asks, "Will you marry me?"

It's ludicrous how he can even think that he will get 'no' for an answer, but Zuko won't put him through this torment for much longer. "Yes, of course, you fool. I'll marry you."

Relief blossoms through grey eyes wide with the joy of being alive together, of having weathered so many storms together and now officially pledging to stand firm in the face of many more. He kisses Aang again, musing that he has probably spent a greater fraction of this day kissing Aang than not, which is fine from both their perspectives—perfect, in fact.

* * *

**A/N**: Check the endnotes on AO3 for better explanations of Zuko and Azula's names: archiveofourown dot org/works/19811947/chapters/50906449#chapter_7_endnotes

I would put them here, but I don't want to clutter up the chapter text, and also I don't trust FFN to consistently support Chinese characters.


	8. LU TEN: Passion of Clouds and Rain

**A/N: **Explicit sex starting from the first scene: if you would like to skip it, start reading at the beginning of their date: "It's like a dream, going out with Lu Ten so casually".

Last scene also sex; if you would like to skip it, stop reading after "Don't be afraid, Hanxin. I'm here."

Other notes: em dashes used to set off Hanxin's written words, — Like this, — as opposed to italics for internal monologue. With a bond like theirs, a lot of the conversation is nonverbal as well, though Lu Ten may not always get Hanxin's exact meaning… It probably doesn't help that I tend to use em dashes a lot in normal verbal dialogue anyways, but it should be fairly obvious from the context. I don't know how it sounds on a screen reader, if anyone is using those.

* * *

**HANXIN **

He wakes slowly without opening his eyes, the sun's gentle morning rays warm and crimson on the backs of his eyelids. It's early still, and he is here with his love; the world can wait.

It surprises him how easily he adjusts to having Lu Ten back, as if this is his natural state of being and not the beleaguered lack of his heart's other half that has plagued him for the past few years. Everything is back to normal.

Well, some things are not. His voice is not, and the war continues, but he can do little about either of these things at the moment, so he lets them be and concentrates on the issue du jour. Namely, the warmth and invitation of Lu Ten's body so close at hand.

"Good morning, dearest." Ah, so he's awake too. Hanxin stubbornly keeps his eyes closed, and Lu Ten laughs. "Don't want to wake up yet, do you? Shall I help you out there?"

One insolent hand curls its way around his back, then moves to the front, sliding downwards without so much as a by-your-leave. Hanxin delights in the gentle press of warm fingers on his skin, the sensation heightened by his sightlessness. A mischievous inkling splashes itself across the surface of his thoughts, an enhancement to their play. He reaches one hand blindly up to feel Lu Ten's face, his delicate eyelashes, and carefully drags his eyelids shut to mirror Hanxin's.

"Feeling shy, are we?" Lu Ten teases. "All right then. If this is what we're doing, I'll close my eyes too."

He feels Lu Ten's eyes relax, their lids no longer trying to open against his hold, so he lets go, wrapping his arms around that broad back instead, drinking in their passionate embrace. The grind of their hips intensifies, a slow build that furthers him down the road to full hardness, wanting and seeking more constantly.

"Hanxin, ah…"

If he could see Lu Ten now, he knows that beautiful face would be transfixed in pleasure, a sight he loves dearly, but it is even more exciting to experience their passion through touch and sound only. Taste as well; he brushes his lips along Lu Ten's face until he finds reciprocation in a deep kiss, exhilarating and so, so perfect.

"Mm…" Lu Ten pulls away from him long enough to gasp out, "Bottoms off, please, I need to feel you…"

They make quick work of their clothes and rejoin with relish. "Fuck, mm…, oh, I've missed this so much, Hanxin, you don't know…"

He does, though, and he has. This endearing intimacy has always been something special he's only shared with Lu Ten, a private treasure to hold close to his heart even as he stared down the long, empty years alone. He leans into Lu Ten's embrace more heavily, the slip and slide of their conjoint arousal pushing him on to greater heights.

Eyes still closed (he presumes, anyways), Lu Ten gasps as a particular catch of skin on skin rubs his cock in the most urgent way. "Fuck, _oh…_" He grapples for Hanxin's hand, looped around his waist, tugs it farther back to cradle his lovely curves. "Do you… do you want to…?"

_To fuck you, to have you as intimately as possible? _Of course he does, but they're too close now as it is. There will be time later, and he promises Lu Ten with a hard kiss, pulling him closer, their hips a yearning focus of pleasure so close to the edge. Like this, just like this, falling into each other, that heady rush of adrenaline nearly enough to send him past his tipping point.

_Ah… _He jams his eyes tightly shut as their climax approaches, sensations running awry all through his skin and his core as he feels it tighten, Lu Ten's cock dragging along his at just the right moment and intensity and _oh, that's it, that's it…_

"_Oh… _oh, Hanxin, fuck, _fuck_—!" Lu Ten calls out, and Hanxin is too overcome to resist any longer, his eyes flash open to witness Lu Ten in the instant of his release. His lips part slightly in a helpless rush of pleasure, cheeks flushed with exertion. His eyes are scrunched shut, a look that should lend itself to hilarity, but in Hanxin's eyes, there is nothing so beautiful as Lu Ten, lively and radiant with satisfaction.

He smiles at the sight, unconsciously rubbing more snugly against his lover's body, distantly aware of the mess between them. Lu Ten hisses at the sticky sensation and decides that he's allowed to open his eyes now.

"Cheater," he grumbles upon seeing Hanxin's eyes already open.

Hanxin laughs silently, and they drowse in the balmy morning sun, not wanting to stir yet. At length, he takes to the expanse of Lu Ten's back for his tracings.

— What 'cheater'? —

Lu Ten takes a moment to process the characters. "You cheated me out of the chance to look at you while we were having sex," he complains.

— Long are the days ahead of us —

Lu Ten doesn't look placated, though he doesn't resist Hanxin's attempts to snuggle him into reconciliation.

— How can I compensate you? —

He considers this solemnly, then brightens as the answer comes to him. "Take me on a date! We haven't been on one in _years." _

— Deal —

He lets his hand drop, intending to catch another wink of sleep before getting up for said date. Lu Ten feels pensive under his hand, though; he doesn't know how to explain it. Uneasy, as if he's holding something back. Hanxin cracks an eye open and raises a querying eyebrow at him.

He sighs, heavy and long, quite at odds with his earlier comportment. "If we're talking about cheating, it should really refer to me."

Hanxin looks on, confused, as Lu Ten sneaks away from his gaze and mumbles, barely audible, "I kissed Jet."

He frowns, still not comprehending. Lu Ten sighs. "You're thinking of little Jet. I'm talking about grown-up Jet who's as tall as we are now."

…right, that makes more sense. At Lu Ten's clarification, he reconciles his memory of the boy he once met with the young man who brought Lu Ten back to him. Of course, Jet grew up as everyone does. Too quickly, perhaps.

"I, well… _he _kissed me, but I did kiss him back before I realized what I was doing. But I felt awful afterwards…"

— Happy? —

Lu Ten stops short, the distressed wrinkle of his brow straightening itself out in his confusion. "What?"

— Did he make you happy when you kissed? — Hanxin spells out more laboriously.

He hesitates, considering this. "Well, yes, in that moment… he did."

— Then I have no reason to be unhappy, and neither do you,—Hanxin says simply.

"Gods, why are you like this…" Lu Ten mumbles, nuzzling his face into Hanxin's neck to avoid looking at him. "Here I was prepared to grovel for your forgiveness and you're not even mad."

— If anything, I should thank him for bringing you back to me,—he says, strokes lazy and magnanimous. — There is nothing to forgive. Fool,—he punctuates with an errant flick on Lu Ten's back, eliciting a giggle at the tickling sensation.

HHH

It's like a dream, going out with Lu Ten so casually, walking with him down a crowded main street without a care in the world. They've never done this before, the war having given them no time for leisure. Lu Ten browses the merchants and sights of his modest hometown, while Hanxin feasts his eyes on him instead.

"Yes, this one, please," Lu Ten points confidently at a generous cut of meat hanging from the ceiling of the butcher's shop. Hanxin frowns at this hefty addition to the vegetables, flour, and various spices he'd already bought from the grocer next door. He tugs on Lu Ten's sleeve as subtly as he can.

"Don't worry, love, I'll pay for it," Lu Ten anticipates him, taking one hand in his and squeezing it reassuringly down out of sight. "What's mine is yours; never forget that."

The shopkeeper weighs the meat and tallies up his price. Lu Ten came better prepared than Hanxin thought, because he hands over an entire gold coin. "Keep the change."

The shopkeeper looks like he might faint. "Is… this is…" he stammers.

"Go on then," Lu Ten says with no small amusement. Overcome with awe, the poor man puts the coin to his mouth and takes a very hesitant bite. The metal does not yield.

"I… it is! Thank you, thank you sir! Please feel free to come again, sir!"

Hanxin can't help but feel secondhand embarrassment for his neighbor. He may never have had gold to spend before, but it's not worth having a fit of ecstasy over.

"I'm going to treat you to the very best tonight, in more than one way," Lu Ten whispers slyly in his ear as they walk away.

_Oh? _Hanxin cocks his head, curious as to the extent of Lu Ten's culinary skills.

"Oh yes. Wait for me here." Lu Ten darts away towards another shop across the street that's caught his eye, and Hanxin watches, puzzled but adoring, as he browses a selection of elegant earthenware vessels. It's not one that Hanxin's ever frequented, not seeing the need for luxury kitchenware.

He waits patiently as money changes hands and Lu Ten comes back with a small pear-shaped jar capped with an exquisite glass stopper. It's no taller than the length of his hand. Hanxin supposes it can be used to store sauces and the like, but he has plenty of ordinary bowls at home that serve the same purpose. He doesn't want to chastise his dear lover for idle purchases when it seems to bring him such joy, though.

"Look," Lu Ten says excitedly. He uncaps the jar and pours a tiny bit of some viscous liquid onto Hanxin's palm. It smells lovely.

"It's coconut oil! The smoothest glide you'll ever experience, with no residue or staining afterwards. The lady there was very vocal about her testimonials for this particular product. I can't wait to try it."

Hanxin breaks out in an unflattering blush, struggling to suppress his laughter. He does not succeed, and unseemly giggles and snorts leak their way out through his mouth. Only now does he realize how far off the mark he was.

Lu Ten smiles at his perplexing display. "I can't believe you've lived in this place your whole life and you never realized that shop was for, ahem_, leisure_ goods."

He rolls his eyes. To be fair to himself, that shop has only been around for the past three years or so, and he'd never paid enough attention to realize that they were selling the concoctions inside the containers, not the containers themselves. _Give me some credit here. _

HHH

This year's vendors are really jumping the gun on Duanwu Festival; it's not for another two weeks. _Zongzi, _the traditional leaf-wrapped sticky rice dumplings, line the steamers of every shop stand, enticing hungry marketgoers, and Lu Ten goes to get them a couple.

It's fascinating learning things about his lover that he would never have garnered from their lives during wartime. Tuanyuan was an excellent cook, bless his departed soul, but there just wasn't much excitement in their food supply. They'd endured three years of endless variations of different flatbreads, fried pancakes, gruels, roasts, sometimes dumplings if there was an occasion. Now, he gets to watch Lu Ten unwrap the steaming lotus leaves from his mouthwatering _zongzi_ and… go straight to hacking it apart, decimating its perfect pyramid shape with his chopsticks like a wild animal.

"…"

Lu Ten notices his stunned expression. "What? It's easier to eat this way because you let the steam out faster, so it's not as hot and doesn't burn your tongue."

Hanxin remains stock-still, devastated at this revelation. Does Lu Ten eat _bao _like this too? What about _lo mai gai_? What about…?

Gradually, Lu Ten figures it out. "If it helps you mentally reconcile things, imagine that our upbringings were switched. I clearly have the manners of a wandering minstrel, while you were raised to dine like a prince." He nods at the way Hanxin is approaching his _zongzi_, carefully shaving off one corner at a time, and then small bites from the exterior, saving the meat and egg yolk filling inside for last.

Hanxin smiles, nonetheless. Every little thing about his love is precious to him, even his bizarrely amoral table manners. He pours them each another cup of tea and drinks.

"I feel like this is our first date," Lu Ten says. "Like a blind date, where our friends set us up. It's like I'm meeting you all over again."

In a way, it's exactly what Hanxin had been thinking. Differences in table manners aside, he tries to put a finger on what's changed about Lu Ten and comes to the conclusion: nothing's changed. He's just seeing Lu Ten in a different, much happier setting than the one in which they met, and he. Is. Beautiful.

"Let's pretend it _is _a blind date!" Lu Ten suggests, enthused at the idea. "Let's say our mutual friends Yao and Shang set us up, thinking we'd be a good match."

He dips one finger in the bowl of tea at hand and traces characters on the table; writing on parts of Lu Ten's body attracts too much attention in public.

— We _are_ a good match —

"But we don't know that yet." Lu Ten persists in maintaining the illusion of their blind date. "I have to find out more about you to see if you're a keeper. Uh, let's see…" He ponders what questions to ask. "So, what do you do for a living?"

— Going straight for the money, I see, — Hanxin asserts severely. — And here I thought you were a romantic. You're supposed to ask how good of a lover I am first. —

"That question will be answered during the practical exam later tonight." Lu Ten winks. "So what's your answer?"

_We're really doing this, aren't we? Well, two can play at this game. _

— I sell words, — he begins. — I can't speak aloud, so I only sell written words. People pay me to transcribe letters to and from distant family members, husbands and sons serving on the front lines, imperial missives, marriage agreements, contracts for work and trade, and the like. —

— Around New Year's, people commission me to write auspicious words to ring in the new year. I spend the whole winter brushing up on my calligraphy skills. Sometimes I write poetry for people to use to woo beauties near and far; that tends to sell very well around Qixi Festival in the seventh month. —

— I write songs about many things: nature, historical subjects, the lability of human relations, the things I saw and the people I met in the war. Those aren't as popular; I think people think they're depressing. It's not the same when I can't sing the songs myself. —

— I also teach children in the village to write their characters. Most people here can recognize numerals and their own names, but not much else. It's slow going, since I can't speak and they can't read, but a handful of my students have reached reasonable fluency. —

— It might seem counterintuitive to teach my own craft to others. Once they learn to write for themselves, they won't need me anymore. But I feel it's something I need to pay forward, from the one who taught me to write. I wouldn't have this livelihood without him. —

He refills their teacups and pushes one towards Lu Ten, who drinks and swallows thickly.

"Tell me about the one who taught you to read and write," he says, voice only a little uneven. "How did you meet? Where is he now?"

Hanxin smiles, reaching his right hand out to clasp Lu Ten's. With his other hand, he continues.

— He was my commander during the war. A great warrior, and a good man. I wouldn't have survived without him, though he would argue many times over that it's the other way around. —

Lu Ten nods, not interested in challenging that notion.

— He died heroically in the last battle. I did everything I could to save him, but it still wasn't enough. I've never forgiven myself, and I live on in the hopes that he's watching me from heaven and that the small good I'm trying to do is worthy in his eyes. —

A raindrop falls onto the back of his hand, entwined in Lu Ten's, and Hanxin frowns. Is the roof leaking? It's not even raining.

Lu Ten sniffles quietly, and Hanxin thinks he may have taken this game too far. He leans over to wipe away those glimmering tears, the stares from the neighboring table be damned.

— It's a meager profession, — he concedes, — but I enjoy what I do. I'm highly respected within the community, and even when there isn't much work for me, the village keeps me well. Every so often, I'll wake up in the morning to find a basket of eggs on the front stoop, or a sack of nearly ripe figs, or a barrel of rice. People can afford to be kind here. —

It's probably not a huge comfort to the sensitive Lu Ten, but he doesn't want him to think Hanxin's been eking out a miserable living for lack of alternatives.

— Fortunately, I hear that you are a man of considerable means, — he continues, trying to insert some levity into the situation before Lu Ten floods the place with his tears. — Tell me, what do _you _do for a living? —

Lu Ten sustains a gentle hiccup, tears not quite doused. He downs the rest of his tea in an attempt to quash it. "I'll have you know that I am a royal prince of Sozin's line," he declares dramatically.

_Can you please not say that so loud. _Hanxin glances around, aware that there are potential eavesdroppers all around them. No one seems to have tuned in to their blind date, so it's okay.

"In terms of what I do, uh… I attend to affairs of state, I guess?" He words it as a question, and Hanxin stifles an amused smile.

— Busy work, I'm sure, — he teases. Lu Ten's been out of the country for eight years, and before that, Hanxin doubts he was given many official duties at the age of seventeen.

"Yeah, there's a lot I'll have to learn once things get back to normal. But rest assured, I have plenty to offer you; you'll be a kept man. An imperial princedom is worth ten thousand taxable households, which is no small affair. Well, Fire Lord Ozai might have changed that since I was around," he speculates.

He looks up at Hanxin, biting back a rueful laugh. "I don't think I can do this anymore."

— This was _your_ idea. Do you concede defeat? —

"Since when was this blind date a game of wins and losses?"

Hanxin taps the surface of the table expectantly with one finger. Lu Ten sighs and nods. "Yes, I concede defeat." He consults his purse and puts down enough coins for both of them, and they rise to leave.

HHH

Hanxin takes them down a gravel-laden path away from the main street. It's a lovely promenade flanked by willow trees that gives way to a long dock extending into the river. In the water, boats race to and fro, manned by six to ten rowers each. The boats are adorned with the carven heads of fierce dragons, a mascot to guide them through the water.

"They're practicing for the Dragonboat race," Lu Ten realizes. Hanxin nods.

"I've only seen it once in person. There aren't any rivers or canals in the capital city that are wide enough, and rowboats are prohibited in the bay waters before the Gates of Azulon. Ostensibly because that space is reserved for battleships to defend the homeland at a moment's notice," Lu Ten posits. "Though in my memory, we've never actually celebrated the other elements of Duanwu at home either."

_And why might that be? _Hanxin wonders. He watches a family on the opposite shore, a couple with two small children, tossing rice to a flock of turtleducks in the shade.

"The Duanwu festival celebrates Qu Yuan, a poet and statesman of the ancient state of Chu, located near modern-day Yingdu in the western Earth Kingdom," Lu Ten pontificates. "Jet and I visited there during our travels when we met Jeong Jeong. Qu Yuan drowned himself in the Miluo river after his homeland was defeated by their erstwhile ally, Chin the Conqueror. Qu Yuan had advised the king to be cautious and not to ally with Chin, but his advice was met with scorn and dismissed by the king and the rest of the ministers. He was exiled and spent the rest of his days in obscurity."

_What a risky business it is, to be a loyal subject to your country. To be faithful to a faithless sovereign, that is true foolishness. _

"He was considered a folk hero by the people, though, and after he committed suicide, the townspeople rowed out on the river in search of his body, throwing rice to feed the fish and distract them from eating his remains. Or was it to ward off demons and water spirits?" Lu Ten ponders. "In any case, now I see why the Fire Lord discourages the veneration of Qu Yuan. He wouldn't want anyone getting ideas about political dissidence and speaking out against their sovereign. That would certainly tarnish his image."

_Even so. _Hanxin laments Lu Ten and Zuko, these scions of the royal house who have tried to do right by their nation, only to find their cause unjustifiable and their contributions forfeit. But unlike the doomed Qu Yuan, they will not give up, but rather turn to other sources of strength and reverse the heavens and earth. There is still hope.

HHH

They pass by the butcher's shop again on their way back through the market, and Lu Ten stops short. The shopkeeper greets him with enthusiasm, perhaps thinking he's back for more.

"Is Du Fu here?" Lu Ten asks.

The man's smile fades abruptly. "Fu-_er _is my son. I am Du Kang. And you, mister, you are…?"

"Someone offering a reward for services rendered." _Well, that's not cryptic at all, _Hanxin thinks, amused though somewhat touched that Lu Ten remembers. Du Fu was the one who bullied him in their youth, teaching him patience and discipline. He should be rewarded, but…

"Unfortunately, my son lost his life in the war a few years ago. Any reward you wish to bestow now would not help him."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that." Lu Ten bows gravely, Du Kang returning his bow with some hesitation.

Lu Ten seems so disappointed as they resume their journey that Hanxin slips one hand through his free arm, linking their elbows as they walk, and Lu Ten looks over at him, surprised.

"I remembered what you told me about Du Fu long ago, and I thought I should stick to my word and give him some kind of official ranking. His father can accept the position in his place, then. A marquisate, perhaps?"

Hanxin yanks his arm towards him in alarm_—definitely not,_ but Lu Ten laughs. "I'm joking. I know he's not _that _worthy. You were probably thinking more along the lines of a county-level agricultural officer."

_That sounds better. _Hanxin relaxes.

"I'll see to it, once all is said and done," Lu Ten promises.

_And yet so much remains to be said and done. _They don't speak of that yet, though. They deserve one day to live outside of reality.

* * *

**LU TEN **

Mid-afternoon now, and Lu Ten assumes they're going back home until Hanxin tugs him aside to a small fabric stand for one last purchase. They come away with a single bolt of red silk cloth, about four feet long and two wide.

"What's that for?" he asks. Hanxin shakes his head. _You'll see. _

Hanxin lets him drop their groceries at the house but then takes him by the arm and leads him onto a path that Lu Ten remembers him coming from, the day he showed up unannounced. Where it leads, he will now find out, his curiosity burgeoning as they trek down the path.

About half a mile's walk later, they arrive before a lonely tombstone. Lu Ten's heart drops when he realizes what is written on it: his own name and Hanxin's.

He sinks to his knees, but Hanxin steps in front of the headstone first and lays the red cloth over it, obscuring the names from view.

"Hanxin…" He doesn't know what to say. That his own name is there does not surprise him, but Hanxin's as well, as if he had died, too, unwilling to face the rest of his life without his love.

"Hanxin, I'm here… you're here. We're going to be okay, I promise you. I won't forget you this time, I won't leave you, my love…" He's almost babbling, shaken by the reality of Hanxin's tragic survival. A comforting hand on his shoulder as his love stands at his side, no mere inhabitant of cold and carven stone, and Lu Ten takes that hand, anointing it with fervent kisses.

His clarity returns slowly, the red cloth blocking out their names and helping him remember that indeed, they are not there. They are here, alive and well. They have outlived many, and they will persist.

Hanxin passes him the small flagon of wine he'd brought along, and he understands now what it's meant for. He pours out a libation for the ones they have left behind, the 18th regiment, all the men he'd sworn to protect, and yet their ashes lie scattered to the winds, ungathered, unrevered.

"Isn't it curious, how even in death, we are unequal?" he murmurs, hollow as the upturned flagon, cold as the wine now drenching the grass before the headstone. "That they should die, and we should live: what justice is there in that?"

Above him, Hanxin reveals no truths to him, no magnificent insights: this is not something that can be reasoned away by human logic. There is no justice in death, only duty in life and the ineffable sense of needing to live for something, anything.

_To ensure that they did not die in vain, _Lu Ten vows. _To continue fighting their fight, to realize the world's beauty. _

"Zuko said that you told him, we were betrayed by one among our number," he recalls. "Who was it? How did you find out?"

A long, drawn-out sigh, and Hanxin taps three times on his shoulder, deliberate, solemn like a funeral beat. _Later, _he promises, _later. Let us have today. _

"Okay." He gets to his feet, legs burning, and pushes the shadows back from his mind. The sky is bright, the air is clear, and a gentle breeze lifts his spirits. "Later," he agrees.

* * *

**HANXIN**

Lu Ten drags his composition table outside next to the large, cast-iron wok. It's the largest flat surface in his house and as such comes in useful as a makeshift kitchen worktop. He's never known Lu Ten to be talented in the kitchen, but admittedly, the battlefield didn't provide much opportunity for such displays.

Lu Ten spreads a bowl of flour out across its plane in preparation for making noodles. _I'll be shaking flour out of the cracks for months to come, _Hanxin despairs, before catching himself short. _Months? Do we _have_ months? _

— Where did you learn these skills? — he traces with one finger in the flour, disturbing the little mound Lu Ten is creating to start molding the dough.

Lu Ten brushes his hand away, smoothing the flour out again. "With Zuko, during the year we spent outside the palace. We had to earn our keep somehow, and an old lady a few villages south of here was kind enough to teach us her craft."

He steeples his hands under his chin, elbows on his knees as he ponders the study in opposites that is his life's own love. Prince of the blood; content to wander the backwaters of the Fire Nation for months with no money, servants, or material comforts. Fluent in politics, history, and literature; equally able to whip up a rousing bowl of beef noodle soup. Expresses major qualms about drinking wine straight from the bottle; has no problem mangling his food in the most uncivilized manner… Hanxin shakes his head, discombobulated yet never tired of trying to figure out the enigma of Lu Ten, most beloved.

"If you're just going to sit there and daydream, why don't you help me out instead?" Lu Ten grouses, shattering his illusions. "Grind the spices up into powder, the finer the better."

Hanxin frowns, encroaching on Lu Ten's flour pile again.

— Why do _I_ have to grind the spices? Hand-pulling the noodles looks more fun. —

He's being difficult on purpose, because he loves to see the tiny divot in Lu Ten's brow, the sweet purse of his lips when he dons the guise of mock-irritation. The games they play… Sure enough, Lu Ten glares at him, the harshness in his eyes at odds with the tenderness of his words as he cajoles his obstinate lover into compliance.

"_You _get to grind the spices, because the spices are what give the soup its flavor, and _you _are the one who brings flavor to my life," he explains with utmost patience.

Hanxin clearly isn't the only one who knows how to play this game. Lu Ten is a master, his honest charm disarming, and Hanxin gladly accepts his resounding defeat. Without any further complaints, he obediently picks out the spices—anise, cinnamon bark, bay leaves, peppercorns, fennel seeds, cumin seeds, licorice root, ginger—and tosses them into the wok, toasting them until they're dry and brittle. He empties them into the mortar and pounds away, crushing them into progressively smaller pieces with the pestle, showing Lu Ten his progress some fifteen minutes later.

"Lovely," Lu Ten assesses the fine powder he's produced, stealing a quick kiss while he's at it. Hanxin didn't think such brief words of praise could inspire a chili-powder level of blush in him, yet here he is.

HHH

Lu Ten's special beef noodle soup is to die for, Hanxin decides. If this is his last meal, he can die satisfied, though he's not entirely sure of the need for such morbidity. They eat outside, a soft evening breeze rippling through the atmosphere, gentle golden beams leaking over the hills even after the sun sets behind them. Crickets chirp shrilly in the bush, and Lu Ten smiles over at him as they empty bowls of soup and cups of wine in gluttonous succession.

"Is it good?" he asks, rather unnecessary. He laughs as Hanxin nods enthusiastically. "Maybe I should go back to Ba Sing Se and set up a noodle shop and serve nothing but this. I'd put Kang's out of business for sure." He leans in close, a mischievous smile gracing his lips. "The secret ingredient is love."

_I see. _— Then I'd rather you stay here and cook for me alone, — Hanxin writes on the back of Lu Ten's hand outstretched across the table, delicate tendons rising to his touch.

"Jealous, are we?" Lu Ten teases. He flips his hand over so they're palm to palm, catching Hanxin's hand even as he starts to withdraw and pulling it towards him for a tender kiss.

They eat without hurry, relishing the chance to just be together in this slightly incredible moment of domesticity, something Hanxin could never have imagined for them five years ago. Still, here it is, real and tangible, yet frighteningly close to being snatched away. It's part of what causes him to retreat to his music and composition after dinner, a mainstay of the long years he spent alone, a companion even in his darkest times.

The hours pass; he flits between the strings of his lute, trying to decide: a new composition, or an old tune? So much of his old favorites were composed with vocals in mind, insufficient without the voice he now lacks. If he must choose between losing his voice and losing Lu Ten, though, the choice is clear; there is no question.

Lu Ten accompanies him willingly, always glad to hear him play. In the flickering candlelight, he is beautiful but ethereal, the shadows sometimes capturing his face as he turns this way and that, walking around the room and examining Hanxin's collection. It is as if a spirit occupies his home, transient, not of this world, and his fingers pause, befuddled on the strings, reluctantly giving in to that nagging fear: what if this can't last? What will the future bring?

* * *

**LU TEN**

Their eyes meet across the room, and Lu Ten sees in Hanxin's gaze the same confusion and unease that's been settling in his stomach all day. This uncertainty, this feeling of living in a farce, pretending that the war outside isn't ongoing—it's aggravating in its ubiquity, intruding on moments throughout their day. They can't avoid it, but Lu Ten is determined not to let it ruin their night. He crosses the room, twelve paces bringing him to stand before Hanxin, and holds out a hand.

_Don't be afraid, Hanxin. I'm here._

LLL

It would be wrong to say that their lovemaking embodies any specific character; it is not singularly tender or rough, wistful or joyous, resplendent or mundane, but all of the above and more. They fumble with ties and hems in a rush to shed their layers; they fall together in riotous disarray among the sheets already mussed up from this morning. They press against each other, both eager to chase that glorious prize but also longing for the sweet, slow drive to reach it. Lu Ten feels every inch of Hanxin's body and marvels at how easy it is to recall the cues that he learned when they first became lovers.

How he grips tighter, rocks his hips against Lu Ten's still harder when he tangles seeking fingers through unkempt hair;

How his kisses turn to just-barely bites when Lu Ten reaches for his cock, his teeth favoring Lu Ten's neck just above his collarbones, following each nip with a gentle lave of his tongue and a deep, wrenching groan as Lu Ten eases his thumb just so over the head of his cock, _gods you're so responsive— _

How his hands slow to an idle crawl over the planes of Lu Ten's body when he's considering breaking out the lube, Lu Ten helpfully hands him the jar;

He's more urgent today, though, on just the wrong side of uncontrolled, immersing himself with utter abandon in the experience of their togetherness, throwing himself into it so completely that he's wild and wavering. Lu Ten understands where he's coming from, and even as he spreads his knees wide, welcoming Hanxin's fingers, he feels an aberrant rush of protectiveness, wanting to let Hanxin have his way with him, to give him the chance to forget tomorrow's worries and concentrate only on the moment before them. This… yes. He can do this for Hanxin, _wants _to do it.

"Beautiful," he whispers, unable to hold his silence, watching Hanxin as he's hunched over his lower half, stretching him in preparation for his cock. He looks up, bemused, as Lu Ten slides one hand down to stroke himself, the other spreading across his chest, touching his nipples, multiple points of stimulation not primarily for his enjoyment, but for Hanxin's. _Keep him focused on this, not the future, not the past, _now.

"Hanxin… I love you."

Hanxin presses his lips together, holding back words that would not come anyways, regretfully.

"I know you want to say it back, but you already are," he murmurs. "With your fingers, every time you cross—ah! Yes, that's it—that spot, fuck… the way you watch me touching myself, like you want to be the one touching me everywhere, _ah_… like you're fucking me with your eyes, Hanxin…"

Egging him on like this is a pastime Lu Ten could get used to. He drinks in the way his pupils go dark and wide with lust, his fingers growing more frenzied, three of them now, up to the first knuckle. Lu Ten arches his neck dramatically, head nearly off the edge of the bed, driven to impossible extremes.

"Oh, gods…" He may have overdone this, in immediate retrospect. "Hanxin, if you don't fuck me soon, I'm going to come just from watching you."

He doesn't mean it as a threat, but a quick hand over his wrist, staying him from further attentions to his cock, tells him that he does have a jealous lover who will only suffer to drive him to release himself. _I wouldn't have it any other way. _

"Fuck… _oh—" _Hanxin presses into him so slowly, every muscle taut from holding back, as if daring him to go over the edge without him. "_Yes, _Hanxin... don't make me ask for it."

He needs Hanxin to move; this long, sustained stillness is almost too much to bear. Hanxin strokes a deliberate hand down his ribs, his right side, circling around his scar, revisiting its rough edges. His other hand is gathered under Lu Ten's opposite knee, hyperflexing his hip to push in even deeper, refusing to give it to him quite just yet. A slight, nearly imperceptible withdrawal, pushing in again all the way, not nearly fast or hard enough to satiate Lu Ten. A familiar glimmer alights in those lambent, loving eyes, and he knows Hanxin would very much love to hear him begging to be fucked in the most lurid manner possible.

_Well, if I must._ "Please, _please_, Hanxin…"

Someone's feeling merciful today. Slowly, gradually, Hanxin gains momentum. Lu Ten watches him through a delirious haze of pleasure, knowing that as his motions gain automaticity, the likelihood increases that he will forget himself, that his thoughts will turn back to what is not at hand and disrupt his delicate balance.

That is not what they want here and now. _Enjoy yourself, my love. Enjoy me, enjoy us, _he thinks, a blessing unspoken but transmitted through every touch he manages to lay, on Hanxin's face, his back, his arms as he plants his hands by Lu Ten's head, bracing himself, thrusting into him with still more ardor. _I love you. _

He takes his own cock in hand again, knowing how it drives Hanxin to ever greater highs. "Ah… Hanxin, I'm so, so close_—" _

Fingers gripping his hips like there's no other stable surface in the world, a definitive tempo accelerating with Lu Ten's heartbeat, and all too rapidly he is on the very edge—

"Hanxin—!"

_Fuck… that was… _

He drags his eyelids open, the warm, low light searing in the glow of his release, and he feels like a peaceful jelly, spilled over this bed in resplendent satiety, except…

Hanxin leans over him, breathing hard, muscles tight with the tension of holding still out of consideration for Lu Ten's sensitive post-orgasmic state. Inside him, his cock remains still very much hard and desirous for further proceedings.

"Mm…" He reaches one drunken hand up to stroke the curve of Hanxin's jaw and curl over his cheekbones, tracing the sweat along the bridge of his nose. His motions are clumsy from his release, but he wants Hanxin to know how loved he is.

"Dearest, didn't I say? What's mine is yours… and that includes this mortal coil." He wraps his arms around Hanxin's back, pulls him down to lie flush against himself, a spine-chilling whisper in his ear. "Take what you need," he says, emphatic, naked. "Don't hold back."

Hanxin shivers with dizzying elation, turning his head to one side, teeth closing over one delicate earlobe. Lu Ten gasps as he renews his thrusts, holding on with all the strength he has left.

"Yes… that's right." Hanxin groans low in his ear, impossibly aroused, so, so gone on him. "My love, that's perfect, oh… _fuck." _He's still sensitive from his climax, and the relentless battery of thrusts on his engorged prostate pushes him past his limit. He doesn't want Hanxin to stop, though, not until he reaches the moment of release as well. "Hanxin, ah… I'd come for you again if I could."

A gentle, almost shy smile up at his lover, and oh dear, was that the wrong thing to say? Why are tears involved? No, no, no, no crying; he reaches up to wipe them away in a panic, but Hanxin laughs, a short, choked-off sound, kind-of-sort-of reassuring. Tears of joy? Tears of joy. Tears of joy drop onto his face as Hanxin closes his eyes tight, his thrusts shorter and less controlled, his climax imminent—

"Yes, Hanxin, go on—" he whispers, straining upwards for a kiss. Hanxin throws himself into it, tongue wild, teeth wild, catching and releasing Lu Ten's lips in fits, and _now—_there it is, his release hot and spilling over, just as intense as when Lu Ten came, "_Ah—_"

_I love you_

LLL

"I love you," he whispers as they doze in the aftermath. "I love you." It's redundant but never irrelevant.

Hanxin hrm's softly, nestled to his side as comfortable as can be. His hair tickles Lu Ten's chin, and Lu Ten blows at a stray strand, trying to get it to lie flat.

"I will always love you."

All is well for now, and that is all that matters.

* * *

**A/n:** Thank you for reading! Writing notes: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/51157219. These discuss many fun topics like food, sex, calligraphy, money, Duanwu Festival.


	9. AZULA: Broken Jade

**A/N:** Warning for **nonexplicit discussion of sexual themes (not sexual assault) **towards the end. If you'd like to skip that, stop reading after "Dark eyes, not green, charm her dreams as she wrestles with the mortifying ordeal of being loved."

* * *

_17 May. _**AZULA**

"Do you have any family in this area, Peony?" Song's mother asks over dinner. It is the first time Azula has been able to join them at meals, having spent the past two days recovering from her illness.

"No, sadly. I'm from Meikuang, far to the south." _How far is that exactly? _Azula curses herself for not thinking up a decent cover story first. "I lost my home and ended up wandering alone." There, hopefully they won't dig into what promises to be a tragic and painful backstory, though all too common in this war-ridden land. "I haven't seen my family in a very long time."

Song nods sympathetically. _She's altogether too perfect,_ Azula thinks, resonant with bitterness. Classically beautiful, cherry lips, dark eyes like still forest pools amid frost for skin, the stuff of court poetry.

"Are they fighting in the war?"

Um. In a manner of speaking. "Well, my father is. My mother has passed… as has my brother."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Your mother must have been beautiful," Song's mother says.

Azula can't help the flicker of irritation that quirks her lips. How is she to answer that? 'My mother was beautiful on the outside but flawed as cracked jade on the inside.' _No. _Why do people insist on such oblique compliments? Jinora had said the same thing to her, empty praise for a mother who was just as devoid of love and nurturing, whom Azula is doomed to resemble inside and out.

Song has her chopsticks raised halfway to her bowl when Azula looks up from her disgruntled musings, paused in suspension, awaiting an answer. "You're too kind," she says, meaning it literally. Mother and daughter both fall short of such praise.

AAA

Azula sleeps in one of the rooms normally reserved for patients staying overnight. It's humble but comfortable, and she lays the peony hairpin on the table next to her bed, letting her hair down. She brushes it out, watching her reflection in a large mirror on the wall. The brush's wooden handle rests sturdy and smooth in her palm.

If her mother were here, she would have even more reason to despise Azula for killing her favorite child. Azula could never do any good in her eyes, and here she is proving her mother right yet again.

She dreams of Zuko as she saw him in those last moments, eyes divine scarlet with unearthly power, fading as her lightning strikes him and he crumples, human once more.

"No… _no…" _she breathes, heart hammering in her chest as the floor beneath her knees turns glassy and translucent. She can see her reflection, the wildness of her hair under the lightning's static effect. She tears at her hair, large clumps falling out under her frantic hands, as if her life is not filled with enough horrors already. "_What have I done?" _

"What a shame," a dry, lofty voice declares. "You always had such beautiful hair."

She looks up, knowing who it will be. But her mother is not there. She looks down, and now she sees that dreaded face, drawn and wraithlike next to her own in the mirrored surface.

"Just like your mother," Ursa says. "Beautiful hair, beautiful smile, beautiful and deadly as whispering starbloom."

"Why are you here?" Azula demands, fists clenched at her sides.

"Because I love you, Azula. How could I not? You're more like me than I even thought. Killing is the family business in more ways than one, wouldn't you say?"

She smiles, bleak as bones long dried, and Azula starts to falter, her eyes betraying her as the lines between her face and Ursa's begin to blur, and they become as one.

"No… we're nothing alike!" She scrambles back from the demented reflection, no longer able to tell who is staring back at her.

"Just like me…" the reflection croons softly, following her, haunting her—

"No!" she screams, and finally, she sits up in bed, blessedly awake. The first thing she notices is the mirror across from the bed, a familiar face staring her down.

* * *

**SONG**

She rushes into the room at the sound of glass shattering, a hairbrush lying amid the pieces as Peony huddles on the bed, furiously gulping back tears. "My own mother thought I was a monster," is all she says, over and over, incomprehensible out of context.

It doesn't matter, though. _Sometimes we as doctors can only treat symptoms. The source may never be known, but it does not have to be known._ Peony needs comfort and solidarity, and Song hugs her through the shuddering hiccups of post-nightmare recovery. "I'll protect you from the monsters," she says, trying to pass it off as a joke, but Peony just clutches her tighter.

She makes a vow, then. Peony sleeps in her bed every night thereafter without any more recurrent nightmares.

* * *

_18 May. _**AZULA**

"Here you go, Peony. This should sort out Mr. Peng just fine." Song hands her a bowl of some herbal concoction and a small round drum of ointment. "_Simiao _brew for his gouty toe, camphor and menthol ointment for his arthritic joints, and he'll be right as rain."

She brings the items over to the elderly man practically collapsed in the bamboo recliner by the window. He's one of many townspeople who frequent the clinic here with various common ailments. This isn't even the first time Azula's seen this same mundane treatment used in the two days she's been helping Song out with patients. Yet every time, she reacts with compassion and empathy, hurrying to brew up the necessary compounds.

Mr. Peng's face lights up as she approaches with his remedy. "Ah, just what I need! Song always knows what to do for these cracked old joints; that girl's a blessing to mankind."

She offers him the tea, at the last moment remembering to set the ointments down on the table, freeing both hands to pass him the cup. It's a habit of Haru's that she'd noticed back when they had stayed with Jinora, tending to the dying woman in her final days. _"It's a sign of respect. You wouldn't want to carelessly drop something meant for your elders, so you use two hands to hold it."_

Mr. Peng doesn't seem to notice her fumble and snarfs the tea down rapidly. Azula picks up the round drum filled with ointment and prepares to attend to his inflamed joints. She rejoices that at least his feet don't stink; Song had taken a proper foot-washing and nail-clipping on herself when he first arrived.

Fortunately, he doesn't try to indulge in conversation, making Azula's work much less taxing. She focuses on the wrinkled skin around his joints, the flesh there having lost the turgor of youth, like the color in his hair and most of the teeth in his mouth. Old age is so… _grotesque. _She doesn't think she will live to experience it firsthand, though. Perhaps one day, the Fire Nation could find her even here, answering to a false name, wearing someone else's clothes, performing the lowly duties of a physician's assistant. She is so far removed from her past life, yet she cannot shed the fear of it finding her again.

Presently, she finishes massaging the ointment into Mr. Peng's joints and deems her job done. She's not sure how to convey this to him in a sensitive manner, though. 'That's it, go away now' seems a bit rude even if it is effectively what she means, but the old man seems to need no such hints. He beams at her and reaches for his cane.

"Thank you so very much, young lady. I can't tell you how much better I already feel. Thank you, thank you so much," he effuses.

She pauses, uncertain as to the right response here. There's never been much room for 'thank you' in Azula's vocabulary. Of course she's used the words before, accepting small praises from her father for mastering new forms, gifts from her mother on her birthday. But she's unused to being thanked. Her servants would never have thanked her: either they did their jobs right amid haughty silence, or they got banished. Her family doesn't even bear mentioning. Ty Lee—maybe if Azula had ever seen fit to share some trifles with her in their childhood.

She does remember one time when Haru thanked her for telling him of his village's liberation by the Avatar, for giving him hope, and she remembers feeling this same awkwardness, as if his gratitude were false, as if she were undeserving. She hurriedly pulls herself out of her thoughts and cobbles an answer together. "Er… yes. Have a good day now."

She leaves Mr. Peng to hobble out alone, rushing to take refuge in the back room where they keep stores of herbs and supplies. Song casts her a worried glance, having witnessed the entire exchange.

"Are you alright, Peony?" she asks. "He wasn't… _crass _to you or anything?"

Azula shakes her head mutely, not interested in explaining herself. She can't express how unnerving it is for someone to genuinely appreciate her for an act of kindness. Normal people do this all the time, but it feels so weird. She supposes she'll have to get used to this if she's to go on much longer living as a "normal" citizen.

* * *

_19 May. _**SONG**

"Song, we're nearly out of cork-tree bark." Her mother sifts through a nearly empty drawer, a few twigs lining the bottom and back corners. "Were you planning to keep more _simiao _in stock? We do still have enough to go on."

"Hmm…" Song peers around thoughtfully at Peony, who's stirring a pot and looking supremely vacant. She can't blame her; tending to medicinal brews is a constant and tireless task, but someone's got to do it. "Peony, how would you like to go on a field trip with me? We need to gather more ingredients anyways, and there's something I want to show you."

Peony looks up, hardly enthused at the idea. Before her lips can form a response, there's a wild neighing of ostrich-horses outside as they screech to a halt, heavy boots hitting the ground and the gate being thrown nearly off its hinges, the whoop and holler of rough voices as they approach the house. _Uh oh. _

Song's mother pales at the sound, and they both know what is coming. Bandits, ruffians, roving bands consisting of deserters from the army or dishonest draft dodgers who dare not show their faces at home anymore. Different ones every time, usually never more than three or four at once; that's the maximum their groups can sustain before they start to fall apart from internal squabbling. They wander the lands seizing whatever prizes they can from defenseless women and children, sowing discord in their wake, demoralizing a people whose hope is already lost to endless generations of war.

Utter filth, that is. And yet Song and her mother and countless others cannot fight back for fear of further violence. Such is the order of things.

The door rattles as the first man kicks it open, lingering in the doorway, a burly silhouette whose sneer she can hear before she sees it clearly. A mountain of a man—he would have done well as a quartermaster in the ranks, but something made him think his life wasn't quite as worth sacrificing. His gaze alights upon her as he steps into the room.

"Well, little lady," he drawls, an unctuous, grating sound. "I'm sure you know what we're here for."

She does, but she won't gratify him by acknowledging him aloud. Her mother gathers her courage and tries for a more diplomatic approach.

"Great warrior, we have nothing to offer you," she says in a quavery plea. It's true; the clients of this village trade in coins only infrequently. They're far more likely to get a sack of millet or a couple hog-chickens in lieu of payment. But the bandits don't care. They'll take anything they can get their hands on.

Two more men flank their leader in the doorway. They all have short swords and scimitars in hand and belted at their waists. They're likely nonbenders, then. Benders, whether Earth Kingdom or Fire Nation, tend to proudly flaunt their lack of weapons, believing themselves invincible. That doesn't change much from Song's perspective, though. Either way, none of them are a match for these three men.

"If you'd like to take refreshment here, or if you have any ailments that need remedies, we can help you. But you will find nothing else here."

"Nothing?" His booming voice is scornful, a scourge on her ears. "You widows and orphans, I know you." He stalks over to her mother, leering down at her as she shrinks away. "You're crafty, you _know _what I'm talking about. You lot always have a little extra stashed away for hard times: the jewels from your wedding night, heirlooms from your mother and your mother's mother… just in case you need them." He straightens up, his height menacing in the small room, almost touching the ceiling. "I'm telling you: you need them _now._"

"Unfortunately, you're too late. We gave them to the last bunch of your kind who came stumbling through here six months ago." Song surprises herself with her bold words. Desperation breeds brashness—what can they do when there is nothing to take?

"No dowry for you, then?" he sneers. "What a shame—unless you can find someone who'll take you without one."

One of his lackeys chuckles, a nasty cluck that turns her stomach. "I know I would."

"There's a little nest egg here." The other goon edges towards Peony, her silver blue hairpin his target. "We wouldn't want to leave empty-handed, after all."

"Ah, now _that's _a find." Their leader laughs, short and cruel. "What do you say, little girl? Hand it over, now."

She turns to face him as he holds out an expectant hand. Her eyes are empty, her lips flat and unevocative, and it breaks Song's heart to see her so cold and broken. Mechanically, like the cogs of a water mill, she raises her hands behind her head as if to undo the hairpin from her bun, when without warning, silver of a different shade flashes in her hand.

"Aghh!" The bandit leader withdraws his palm, clutching his wrist in the opposite hand, blood seeping from his skin.

Peony stands tense, a sharp dagger clutched in her hand, drawn stealthily from her sleeve at a moment's notice. She does not waste words. "Get out," she says, cold as the steel in her grasp. "And don't come back."

They're not going to go without a fight, though, and Song pushes her mother back into a safer corner with dread, unable to tear her eyes away from Peony's unexpectedly graceful form in action. Swords are drawn, and the narrow space of their clinic room is almost unable to contain the flash of silver and arcs of dangerously sharp swords. Peony moves with precision, dancing like quicksilver among the forest of blades that seek to bite, never reaching their mark, while her dagger slashes and burns time and time again.

One of the goons grabs her from behind in a chokehold, but instead of futilely scrabbling at his hands in the front, she wraps her arms around his back and braces her upper body, bringing one agile leg up to kick him right in the forehead. He collapses forthwith to the ground, and the other two back away, sensing that they are close to outmatched.

"Get _out_," she snaps.

"Where'd you learn these skills, then?" their leader asks, breathing embarrassingly hard from this minor exertion. "You're no ordinary country girl."

"Get out!" At this, she snatches up a long torch from its bracket on the wall, one that Song uses when she goes to gather herbs at midnight, and thrusts it into the simmering fire under the pot she was brewing before this all began. The lit torch burns bright, and Song worries that this may not be the best course of action in an extremely flammable room.

Peony stabs the torch towards the remaining two, forcing them towards the door, singeing their beards and brows. Sparks flicker and flame dances, a few tongues alighting on the tables stacked with herbs around them, but they do not catch fire, winking out in an instant.

"I won't repeat myself." Peony's demeanor is that of one who is used to being obeyed. "Don't come back here ever again."

Finally, the goons give up, turning tail and fleeing, dragging their concussed comrade with them. The gallop of hooves and shriek of ostrich-horses fades into the distance, Peony's heavy breaths loud in the silence they leave behind.

SSS

"I really don't see why you're going to all this effort," Peony says, holding a stiff pose. "Didn't you say you were going to get started on making that _simiao _preparation?"

"It's not something that will notice a delay of a day or two," Song dismisses. "We have time; sit still."

She dabs her brush in ink, shedding the excess droplets so as not to overblot her paper, and dedicates herself to taking down Peony's image before her. They're sitting outside on the porch after dinner, the warm evening softening that hard expression into pliability. She sits at an oblique angle to Song, face half in profile, eyes cast down towards the floor. It is an instant stolen from in between bouts of awareness, catching an unguarded moment just before Peony realizes that the eyes of the beholder are upon her. Frozen in time, she remains ever soulful, pondering something or someone far away, wandering without self-regard.

This angle perfectly displays the peony hairpin that caught the eye of the avaricious bandits today. It's lovely, and Song feels sure that there's a story behind this particular ornament. Peony won't tell; that's for sure, but Song can infer some things about her.

One hand fusses at a stray thread in her lap, and Song watches out of the corner of her eye. Peony's skin isn't soft; she knows this from bathing her aching body thoroughly when she first rescued the poor girl. It's not callused either, as you'd expect of a working woman used to carrying buckets or wringing wet laundry. She's a little clumsy at the finer tasks Song sets her to, sewing lumpy, misshapen herbal medicinal sachets. She doesn't shy away from work requiring brute force, lifting heavy pots over the fire with strength that belies her slender frame. She's a little less than adroit when speaking with patients, cutting conversations short and hastening away.

All that, coupled with the manner in which she easily dispatched the lowlife threatening their household today, makes Song wonder if Peony isn't the disgraced daughter of some high-up general or military man, maybe from Omashu or even Ba Sing Se. Peony had mentioned hailing from war-torn Meikuang, but Song sees a lot of traveling merchants coming through the clinic, and the last she'd heard, Meikuang was actually thriving, the Fire Nation occupiers having been routed with the help of the newly revealed Avatar. So something doesn't quite add up.

Song has no way of knowing what led her to these current circumstances. Civil unrest and rebellions dominating the land are a possibility. She's not about to pry, though. Everyone deserves to have a safe haven within their own mind, their identity alone, and Peony's done them no harm; quite the opposite, in fact. So she lets it be.

She does her best to incorporate that air of mystery into Peony's portrait, in the taper of the corners of her eye, her distant gaze, the pendulum-like sway of her hairpin, suspended in time. Who knows where her fate will rest? Song only wishes Peony would stay with her longer, to rest and recoup her strength before facing the world once again alone.

A moth drifts past her face on its way to the lantern hung above their heads, tickling Peony's nose, and she blows at it in irritation. She catches Song's eye and snorts out a short laugh, breaking the monumental silence gathered between them.

"It was drawn to you and your inner flame," Song quips, scurrying to take down the curve of Peony's mouth in mirth before it disappears again.

Peony harrumphs briefly, unamused, and subsides back into stony silence, but she's shown her hand. Her smile is beautiful, somewhat awkward as if she's unused to it, but devastatingly genuine, gone in the blink of an eye. It's… _precious._

* * *

**AZULA**

"This can't be me," she says flatly, holding the portrait at arm's length, staring at it as if that will force it into a truer representation of herself.

"Why not?" Song asks. "It's what I saw: you."

"This is…" Azula can hardly explain it herself. It's too beautiful. No, there's nothing wrong with _that; _everyone says she is. Too ugly? No, Song's artistry is faithful to her image. The issue lies with what this portrait says about the artist. It's different from the various portraits she's sat for by court painters in the past. Their work was bland and timid, portraying her features as conventionally pretty, solemn, detached, as a princess should be.

This was painted with care and compassion, exquisite detail filling every line, imbuing all the shades of her expression with nuanced tenderness, as if she were something to be cherished and preserved with sincerity forever. It strikes Azula as beyond unnatural, and she thrusts it away, standing up, her feet loud on the porch's wooden boards.

"What's wrong?" Song looks up at her, worried. "I'm not offended if you don't like it. I just want to know why?"

Azula shakes her head, shoulders tight. "People just don't see me this way."

"Maybe they're not looking with the right eyes."

_Gods above, I'm not having a philosophical debate right here and now. _"Good night," she says shortly, storming back into the house, leaving Song there in confoundment.

AAA

She pretends to be sleeping when Song comes to bed, and though the young doctress must know better, she plays along and lets Azula be.

For some reason, it's calming, not odd, to listen to Song, the various rustles of cloth, wooden boards creaking underfoot, her mild humming of some ditty from the village market. The music of existence, Azula might call it if she were so fanciful. It occurs to her that she has heard it before.

Every night with Haru, whether they were sleeping in a tawdry inn or under the heavenly awning, she'd lie awake, thoughts aflutter, more often than not lulled to sleep by the sound of him going to bed and drifting off peacefully. What is it about this incalculable domesticity that simultaneously comforts and throws her off?

She ponders this as Song blows out the candle and settles into bed next to her. She must have perfected her skills of feigning sleep, because when Song speaks, it is with the hushed tones of a mother bidding her child a tender goodnight.

_How would you know, Azula? _Her mother's voice taunts.

Shut up!

"You're everything that you don't believe you are, you know that?" Song murmurs. "Capable of kindness, worthy of being loved, _not _doomed to live a tragic life and die a pointless death. All you have to do is be vulnerable enough to let good things find you, and embrace you.

"But you'd rather be broken jade than whole tile. Force of habit, I guess." She sighs, shifting a bit to get comfortable. One hip bumps Azula's, but neither of them moves away.

_She's just like him, _Azula realizes with a dawning sense of consternation. _Just like him, oh gods, another one? Haven't I suffered enough?_

Dark eyes, not green, charm her dreams as she wrestles with the mortifying ordeal of being loved. _Twice._

AAA

It happens without warning. One moment, she's deep asleep, dreaming of something she doesn't remember, and next, she's wide awake, feeling decidedly ill at ease. She feels… weird down there, like an itch? But nothing so localized; it's more of a nebulous wave that seems to originate from her nether regions and lance through her whole body, arching her back, her legs twisting, shoulders shaking as the wave rips through her throat and crests as a shuddering, hoarse gasp.

It doesn't stop; more waves vault through her body, and she feels out of control, as if she has no command over her own muscles. Strangely, it feels good, in a feverish, drunken kind of way. Waves crest and break, her clarity crashing on the rocks as she gives voice to another embarrassingly high almost-shriek—the feeling is so intense, she can't stay silent.

"Mmph?" a sleepy Song puzzles.

_Oh fu—_ No, no, _no, _Song can't see her in this state. She bolts upright, staring down her legs under the blanket, willing her body to control itself. It does not work, and Song wakes fully, frowning up at her.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm… feeling weird."

"Weird in what way?" Song leans over to the bedside table to light a candle with spark rocks.

"I—" She's interrupted by another ricochet of intense pleasure in the absence of any stimuli, fading as fast as it came, leaving her shaken and confused. Song's eyes follow her down the length of her torso to where her hips shift uncomfortably. Coupled with her flushed skin and wide eyes under trembling candlelight, she draws her conclusions.

"You had a … nice dream?"

_Of all the things to call it. _She shrugs noncommittally, unwilling to give a straight answer.

"Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of. The body reacts in ways that even we who study its vagaries cannot explain. It is what it is," Song says, ever the professional clinician. She relaxes against the headboard, but Azula can sense a keen gaze on her ramrod-straight back, curious as to the aberrance of her reaction.

"I thought it only happens to men and boys," she mumbles, feeling as awkward as the day her eldest maid, in the absence of Azula's royal mother, had to teach her twelve-year-old charge about her period. _Ugh, bodies and their inane, disgusting functions._

"Certainly they talk of it more often in unnecessarily bawdy detail. But that doesn't mean women never experience nocturnal orgasms." Her voice turns teasing. "You must have been dreaming of a loved one."

_Was I? _she wonders. Images from her somnolent wanderings flash past, blurry, sleepy memories, but she knows the face that featured in them. She turns to look at it, Song's delicate features as fragile as pine needles, her resolve and kindness stronger than the roots of the mountains.

Song meets her eyes with a puzzle in her own, but something in Azula's gaze seems to clear things up for her, and she leans forward, pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss.

Azula has heard all about kisses, and first kisses especially, from Ty Lee in their youth, whether she wanted to or not. (She never wanted to hear about Mai's first kiss, and Mai wisely never volunteered that information either.) She'd been led to believe that they're some sort of divine, rapturous experience. In all honesty, she feels rather too shaky and unsteady to tell if it's good or not. All she knows is that when they break apart, Song's gently flushed face and parted lips will forever be emblazoned in her memory as the paragon of beauty. This is severely unsettling.

"Maybe it wasn't me," Song says, resuming the thread of their conversation as if it had never been dropped. "But you haven't done this before, and you're nervous, which never makes anyone feel good. I can show you how things are meant to go, if you want?"

Once upon a time, Azula would be irked at the suggestion of her being less than capable. But she's accepts now that there are many things worth doing that she has little experience with. Such as this: she wiggles around in bed until she has room to open her arms, hesitantly, but it works. Song takes her invitation as acceptance, hugging her back without reserve.

_All you have to do is be vulnerable enough to let good things find you and embrace you._

They separate at length, and Song smiles faintly at her perplexed expression. "You see? It's nice."

Through the window, dawn begins to color the sky rosy red, and Song stretches, yawning widely as she starts to get out of bed. The day awaits, many tasks on their list, but she laughs as Azula gathers the covers over her head in frank denial of the need to rise.

"All right, you can sleep in for a few more minutes. I'll draw a bath for you, but make sure you get up soon, or the water will be cold."

"Mmph." She grunts her assent through the blankets, and Song's footsteps fade away, even the sound of socks padding over the floorboards dear and lovely.

_What am I getting myself into?_

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading! Leave a comment if so inspired. **Writing notes**: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/53730793

This is random and totally unrelated to this chapter: I got a question last chapter on anon which I can't reply to via direct messages, so I'm replying here. The question was whether Hanxin is a descendant of Avatar Wan, which is interesting 'cause I've never really described his physical features very much. However, I did once mention in the writing notes (which I suspect most people don't read but that's okay) that my inspiration for Hanxin derives from Wan (aka the sweetest cutest cinnamon roll ever my bb :D). So you know what, he could totally be descended from Avatar Wan, in an unbroken line spanning 10,000 years and hundreds of generations. Why not? :D


	10. LU TEN: The Beginning of the End

_23 May._** LU TEN**

He feels well-rested when he wakes, not something that can be said for the past few months he's spent wandering the world aimlessly. Part of that might be due to sleeping in an actual bed, for once. He stretches, mindlessly pleased with everything, the soft caress of the blankets tangled around him, the light morning air ghosting over exposed skin, prodding him into wakefulness. His arm brushes over empty space next to him in bed.

He registers absence where there should be dizzying, satisfying _Hanxin, _his essence perfection and indispensable. Where is he?

Lu Ten doesn't have far to look as he hears the rustling of papers just out of sight. He sits up to his elbows, glancing over at the table where Hanxin bends over a sheet, concentrating on his writing to the exclusion of noticing all else, including Lu Ten's solitary awakening.

He watches Hanxin for long moments, heart impossibly full of fondness and adulation for this magical being who somehow sees fit to love him in return. Hanxin's long fringe dips into his eyes from time to time, requiring him to shake it out of the way, an adorable little bob of his head that twangs at Lu Ten's heartstrings. He's seen it before, of course, in the early days of their courtship—_is that quite the right word?_ He puzzles it over, but it tickles his fancy, so it stays. Hanxin's never been one to adhere to regulation haircuts, and Lu Ten's never been one to enforce pointless rules.

Everything about him is beautiful, from the tiny lift of his snub nose to the elegant arch of defined brows that Lu Ten longs to kiss (_too far away, damn it), _the way his brushstrokes are studiously tidy and curtailed, coming from the wrist only. From this, Lu Ten can tell that he's writing a longer missive or memoir, replete with details, as opposed to a more large-scale calligraphic artwork that would require wide, sweeping arcs, to be displayed with pride. He wonders what Hanxin is writing, what could be so important as to rouse him from bed early in the morning.

His love pauses at that moment, brush hovering over the inkstone, dripping back into its murky source, and it seems that Lu Ten has been caught. A sly smile spreads across Hanxin's lips, and he pretends not to notice, forcing Lu Ten to break the silence.

"What are you writing?"

Hanxin shakes his head, giving no indication. _Alright then, keep your secrets. _Lu Ten doesn't mind terribly, dismissing it as something Hanxin will tell him about at some point.

"I love you." He settles down again, lying on his side with his head propped up on one hand so that he can see Hanxin.

A slight twitch of his love's expression. _You're not going to tempt me back to bed so easily, _he interprets.

"I'll never leave you again."

Hanxin sighs, and Lu Ten hears the wariness in that long breath. _You've said 'never' before, but what happened in the past and what will come to pass in the future is not and was not under your control. _

It's true; he makes these promises without knowing that he can keep them, only knowing that he will do everything within his power to stay true to Hanxin. No force on earth can possibly come between their love, he vows.

A small blue blown-glass dragon rests on the edge of the paper, holding the periphery flat as the inky characters continue to spread across the page. Lu Ten realizes that it must be the one Aang made for Zuko, given in turn to Hanxin when they met. Zuko had told the story of that gift with a transient blush rising to his ears, quite telling indeed.

Now that he thinks about it, Zuko and Aang should probably be on their way here shortly. He's had two days of blissful reunion with his love, but that does not mean that time has stopped for the world beyond their doorstep. Incipient worries and troubles cross his mind, and he knows that this peace they have enjoyed cannot last for long.

He must be worrying too loudly as usual, because Hanxin looks over, always attuned to him no matter what their circumstances are. At length, he finishes his composition and lays down his brush, rising to return to the bedside.

"Good morning, love." He stretches out an arm, blindly making contact with Hanxin's sleeve, tugging him closer. His love leans down and greets him with a tiny peck on his nose.

_So beloved. _He drowses in the sensation of Hanxin dropping feather-light kisses over his forehead, his eyelids, and over his lips almost as an afterthought. Not satisfied with this coverage, Lu Ten slings an arm around the nape of his neck, forcing him to abandon his teasing and come in close for a firm, long kiss. Hanxin melts against him, his clothed form providing delicious friction against bare skin, his weight warm and stable as their bodies adore each other.

"We have a little time before they get here. How will we keep ourselves busy, hmm?"

They'll think of something.

LLL

Aang and Zuko make their merry way over by noon. Lu Ten opens the door after the fifth knock, having been held up by a series of very distracting kisses while pinned against the wall by the fireplace. Outside, his cousin beams upon seeing him, then turns knowing eyebrows on him. "Late night?" he asks, his tone insinuating.

Too late, Lu Ten intuits that his hair is still loose and very mussed up from Hanxin's wandering hands; his lips are rather aggressively swollen; and his collar is spread wide, on the verge of indecent. Not that it would do much to hide the trail of red marks climbing his neck even if done up properly. He can sense Hanxin facepalming behind him, amused and resigned at the same time.

"Oh, _haha_. And you?"

Aang chooses that moment to graciously cut that conversational thread off, for which Lu Ten is grateful.

"Hi Lu Ten! Hi Hanxin! I'm Aang—well, you both know that already, but I thought it would be best to reintroduce myself now that we're all using our right names and identities."

Good point. They bow in greeting, and Aang and Zuko cross the threshold, the latter making a beeline for Hanxin as soon as he sees him. Hanxin finds himself abruptly folded into a warm hug.

_Oh what, I don't get a hug? _Lu Ten grouches initially. As their hug stretches on, though, his heart softens at the sight of the two people he loves most in all this world wrapped in such an embrace. Zuko whispers something to Hanxin that Lu Ten cannot hear, but Hanxin smiles in return, glowing, radiant.

"I'm glad you're here," Lu Ten addresses them. They are gathered together under circumstances he could never have imagined five years ago, but the changes time has wrought upon them were ultimately for the better.

"I'm glad too," Zuko says. "It's so different from when I've seen this place in the past." Lu Ten supposes he means the vibrant fire lilies, the jollity in the atmosphere, portents of joy and peaceful life. The life they all long for and seek to protect.

* * *

**HANXIN**

"So what's the plan for today?" Aang pipes up. "We did a bit of browsing the last time Zuko and I were here, but that was at night, and also we were being chased by police, so we didn't really get to see much."

They get to talking, about the Dragonboat racing, the delicious cuisine of Hanxin's humble village, the limitations posed by Aang's vegetarian lifestyle, a play Zuko and Aang saw in town while on Ember Island, and the serene air of domesticity fills his sinuses as he watches this unlikely trio gathered under his roof, enjoying each other's presence. As much as Hanxin hates to bring an end to their meandering, lively conversation, he must. With a sonorous rap on the table, he gains their attention, pointing to the long composition he spent this morning inscribing, a tale of truth that he has carried, his lonesome burden, for long enough.

"What is it, Hanxin?" Lu Ten scans his face, worried, uncertain in his manner for the first time this morning. They have known each other long enough to tell when something is not right, and this situation is no exception.

He gestures for them to gather around and read what is written therein. There are some things that must be brought to light, sooner rather than later, and they need to know.

HHH

_Five years ago_

"How did he fall?" Lu Zhao asks one day, a few weeks into their voyage. "General Iroh was shocked, as was I, to hear that Lu Ten and the entire 18th regiment was so thoroughly undermined in battle. As one centrally placed in the midst of things, I'd imagine you have the clearest perspective."

Hanxin observes the blank paper laid out for him, the brush next to it ready for use. He dips the brush in ink, the paper ready to receive its sobering stain, to tell a story of bruising devastation and defeat.

— One of my fellows, Kongming, betrayed us. Towards the end of the siege on Ba Sing Se, he was transferred in and out of the regiment a couple times under the pretext of serving as an aide to Colonel Shinu. Lu Ten didn't have much say in that, and only too late did I understand why. Kongming confessed to me under duress that he destroyed correspondence from General Iroh telling Lu Ten to expect reinforcements to be sent to his aid before the final battle. He also coordinated with Shinu to prevent the new recruits from arriving on time, rendering them useless to help Lu Ten in his last stand. —

Lu Zhao nods. "I remember Shinu sending his condolences, as well as some prevaricating excuses about how the reinforcements hadn't been able to make it on time, something about a delay in receiving authorizations for funding their armaments." He scoffs. "Bogus. As if a bureaucratic error should be reason enough to fail to send help when it was so desperately needed. General Iroh didn't question it; he had more things on his mind, but I've been wondering as to the colonel's intents."

Hanxin nods. It was not even the first time Kongming, under Shinu's orders, had caused a catastrophe nearly resulting in all their deaths. The Battle of Lake Laogai was his doing as well, and he hesitates, words coming to a standstill under that recurrent shame and guilt at not realizing sooner. If only…

"But why would Shinu go to such lengths to try and kill Lu Ten? It reflected well on him to have such a star subordinate; Lu Ten's victories were credited partially to him as his superior." Lu Zhao traces the outline of a knot in the gleaming wooden surface of the table, fingers trailing in hypnotic circles as he ponders. "I suppose he could have been jealously guarding against the possibility that Lu Ten would be promoted above him in due time, but that doesn't make sense either. General Iroh always said he would not promote Lu Ten any further if he could help it. He didn't want his son to become embroiled in that power struggle so soon."

Before Hanxin can answer, a loud knock sounds on the door. "General Iroh, sir?"

Hanxin freezes; Lu Zhao motions for him to remain quiet and gets up to deal with it. "The general is sleeping," he says through the closed door, even though it is early afternoon. "What is it?"

"We just received a message from the Southern Raiders at Whaletail Island as we passed within hailing distance," the messenger reports. "Fire Lord Azulon has died from a sudden illness. In his brother's absence, Prince Ozai has been crowned Fire Lord."

_Death strikes again, this time taking the old, not the young. _

"I don't understand," Lu Zhao says. "In all his letters from home, the general never received any news that the Fire Lord was ill, or even that he was frail in his old age, likely to rapidly deteriorate. This is very unlikely."

Hanxin takes up his brush again. — Nearly impossible, and therefore all the more likely to be related to the matter at hand, and not due to chance,_ — _he deduces rapidly.

"What do you mean? Do you think Lu Ten's death somehow caused this?"

He gathers his thoughts, brush hardly leaving the paper as his strokes turn to a rapid scrawl.

— I remember a letter from Zuko once, telling of how his father, Prince Ozai, thought Lu Ten should be promoted for his many successful campaigns, an uncharacteristically glowing evaluation. But soon afterwards, Shinu proposed to have Lu Ten elevated to Lieutenant Colonel, and the general agreed.

— Moreover, Shinu never told Kongming his true motives. All he could tell me before the end was that the colonel was colluding with someone "higher up" and carried out their orders to the letter, without ever revealing their identity. —

"It's possible that they have some ties," Lu Zhao muses, thinking out loud. "I have heard through General Iroh's network that the two of them were schooled together and were good friends. Talk of an arranged marriage with Shinu's younger sister was entertained, obviously many years ago; it's old news now, but…" He trails off uncertainly. "I don't know. It's a tenuous connection."

— To surmise the truth, we need only answer one question: who stands to benefit most from Lu Ten's death? — Hanxin lists them off in morbid succession.

— 1) Kongming. He admitted to me that Shinu bribed him into doing his dirty work in exchange for an important government position back home. He would have gotten what he wanted, but for his betrayal, I gave him death.

— 2) Shinu. With General Iroh out of the way, he is the natural successor to continue the assault on the inner wall.

— 3) Ozai. Without his son to assure his line, Iroh's candidacy as crown prince is less secure, and it seems that Prince Ozai has lost no time in seizing his chance, going so far as to assassinate his own father. —

Lu Zhao gapes as he finishes writing these deplorable truths down. "Are you sure?" he whispers. "That's treason, if it's true. Conspiring to kill a royal prince, and then actually killing the Fire Lord himself… Ozai will stop at nothing, won't he?"

Hanxin closes his eyes and lays down the brush. Some might see this as exalted speculation, considering the limits of what they know, but in his gut, he feels them to be true. Nothing but dedicated conspiracy and conniving schemers could have brought Lu Ten down at the height of his glory.

"What should we do? What _can _we do?" Lu Zhao stares down at the paper, impossibly shaken by this news.

There is truly nothing they can do. Without definitive proof, they cannot directly attack the new Fire Lord, nor Shinu. General Iroh wanders the wide earth, inconsolable, and the only admission Hanxin has is from the mouth of a traitor, now dead. Piecing together the parts of this murderous puzzle has brought them no relief, no exultance at a mystery well solved. They can only carry this knowledge with them, the dark secret of the Fire Nation, and for Hanxin, it is a scourge of remorse and regret, that he did not come upon these illusions sooner, that he did not stop them before they became the irrevocable truth.

HHH

_Present day_

Lu Ten is the first to look up and meet Hanxin's gaze after reading his blasphemous testament. His eyes brim with shock and a helpless inability to reconcile these words with the truth: everything he's suffered in the past several years, from his near-death onwards, was all thanks to the maniacal whims of then-Prince Ozai, in a conspiracy to seize the throne for himself. Meaningless, so meaningless.

"I always felt he was a cold, distant man, but never did I imagine that Ozai—my own father's brother_—_could be capable of such treachery." He turns his eyes to the page again as if rereading these words will make them any more comprehensible, resting his forehead on one hand. "This is unfathomable."

Hanxin felt much the same way when he and Lu Zhao first connected the dots to this sacrilegious revelation. Ozai's crime is egregious beyond measure but no less improbable.

"But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. I can't believe you figured this out with the resources you had." Lu Ten smiles back at him, eyes tinged with awe and amazement despite this terrible news. "And yet… what could anyone have done? He became Fire Lord smoothly, and we live with the consequences today."

"You're right."

A steely, ice-cold voice cuts across Lu Ten's musings. They all look to Zuko, who still stands hunched over Lu Ten as he sits at the table, weight balanced on one palm, elbow locked and stiff. He stares down at the paper, but the intensity of his gaze tells Hanxin he has long since ceased to see the characters written there. Instead, there is only the consumption of damning fury, his arm cramping, his lips shaking as he struggles to hold back curses to be rained down upon his father.

"Zuko?" Aang tentatively reaches out to him, looking to banish that pain and rage with his gentle touch—to no avail. Zuko jerks his hand away as if he's been burned, looking around wildly like he's just realized that they are still there.

"No one could have done anything at the time," he continues in a voice not his own. "Between Lu Ten's death, Fire Lord Azulon's death, and my father's ascension, no one really knows what happened. Maybe my mother knew; maybe Azula and I had our suspicions, but what could we do? Now, though… now, I can do anything."

He sounds ominous, hell-bound, and Lu Ten tries to defray his rough edges.

"It's alright, Zuko," he soothes, trying to suffuse him with some calm. "There's no point in getting so worked up when there's nothing to do about it right now."

"No, it's not alright." Said as if through gritted teeth, his words are a prophecy, a harbinger of destruction, and Hanxin almost shivers in spite of summer's warmth around them. "I had thought about sparing him, ending this cycle of death and violence, but this… this is unforgiveable. This _needs_ to be remedied."

There is an undercurrent of mania in Zuko's pronouncement, a longing to throw himself fully and madly into that fey bloodlust, the remedy that he seeks. He storms towards the door, and Aang hurries to flank him, alarmed at his unpredictability.

"Zuko, is this really what you want, or is it what you think you want?" he interjects, hinting at considering the latter, but in vain. Zuko stops short just inside the threshold, hand on the door, a crack ajar. The sun's mild rays stream in, alighting on Lu Ten's face, rendering him divine and angelic under the glow.

"What I want is irrelevant," he says, almost spitting the words out. He shakes his head, mocking, eerie in his departure from his usual self. "All that matters is what he deserves. _Death is far too kind for him_."

With that, he jerks the door wide open, the swell of light from outside blinding them momentarily, and then he is gone.

"Oh for guru's sake, Zuko…" Aang makes to follow him, but before he can take another step, Hanxin reaches out to him, a curt hand halting his hasty pursuit. He shakes his head wordlessly; Aang looks to Lu Ten, who sighs, knowing what Hanxin means to convey.

"You knew he would react this way. You wanted to send him into a fit of righteous wrath and spur him into avenging me, even though I am alive and perfectly capable of doing it myself."

Hanxin nods; he has no reason to hide his intentions.

Aang relaxes, Hanxin's hand slipping off his shoulder, his whole being deflating from the tension of earlier. "I'm not against that, either. I've always made it clear to him, I'll support him no matter what choice he makes. I'm just afraid that he'll do something crazy like, fly to the Fire Lord's palace right now and challenge him to a duel."

"How often does he actually do things like that?" Lu Ten asks.

Aang considers. "Well…"

"The Zuko I know is cautious and careful, sometimes to the point of reserving too much of himself." Lu Ten hates to sound so preachy, but he knows his brother well, despite the long years that have separated them. "He is able to display the true depth of his feeling and power in great emotional upheaval, in times of fear, when those he loves are threatened."

Lu Ten pauses for a moment, and Hanxin watches him choose his words with care, pronouncing them with such conviction that men would follow him into grievous battle and beyond. "Zuko's account of your travels together told me that he has yet to reach his full potential. He stops and starts, saving countless lives, but remains afraid to take the credit and come into his own as the Avatar. He embarks on the path to accessing the cosmic energy of the universe, but falls short on the ultimate step. He wrestles with an actual spirit, the sun guardian, but lacks the willpower to overcome it permanently."

He steps through the door, looking out beyond the threshold at the lush fields surrounding the house. It has rained, light and misty overnight. A tunnel of flowering magnolia trees flanks the path that leads into town, and the raindrops gather in dewy clusters on their leaves. Fire lilies dot the grass at their feet, their florid festivity at odds with the seriousness of the current situation.

"He is like the young blossoms of magnolia when winter first starts to warm to spring, eager to sprout, but killed off by a late frost. Never having the chance to bloom to maturity, they die unfulfilled, their beauty unrealized by the world."

Lu Ten's words are harsh, but Aang's downcast eyes tell Hanxin that he has been thinking along the same lines, worrying about Zuko and his tendency to hold himself back, for fear of failure, of vulnerability, of pushing himself too far, to the point of no return.

"In a sense, Zuko is as unlike a firebender as it gets. He needs the willpower of our people to burn on, to melt through that frost and prevail. It is all or nothing with us, and I suspect it will be all or nothing when he faces his father. No temperance from you, from me, from anyone, will stop him."

It is not an answer, and Aang's worried countenance reflects the incompleteness of their situation. Zuko wanders now, the gods know where, and they must carry on, trusting him to cede as much of himself as is necessary to defeat the Fire Lord.

Aang doesn't linger long after Zuko leaves. "If Zuko's going to be running around battling his own psyche for a bit, I need to recoup with the others and figure out the plan from here," he says, mincing no words. Time is urgent, and every person has a role to play in the beginning of the end.

Lu Ten nods. Likewise, he and Hanxin must set out on their own separate way, first to pay his respects to Master Piandao and to get a better idea of how they can help with the White Lotus' efforts at Ba Sing Se. "Go in peace, Aang. We will meet again."

Aang bows to them both, grave and unsmiling, and they watch the sky bison's disappearing blot in the clear skies fade to nothing.

"We are scattered like oracle bones from the fire," Lu Ten says somberly. "The way we fall dictates the fate of the world."

Hanxin secures an arm around his shoulders, and they lean on each other, quietly watching the empty skies, soon to be full of fire and brimstone, celestial wrath dousing the world in doom.

* * *

**LU TEN**

"I'm sorry that we have to go through all this again," he tells Hanxin as they begin the business of packing what they can for tomorrow's journey. "When we first pledged ourselves to each other during the war, I thought the Fire Nation's victory at Ba Sing Se would allow us to live in peace thereafter. Now we're going back, there's still no guarantee of success, and yet here I am asking you to follow me one last time."

Hanxin smiles, a tiny thing that barely qualifies, but it fits. They have done this for long enough, loving each other under gathering storm clouds, that it is no great sacrifice. He returns to the table and takes up his abandoned brush again, adding one line to the end of his hair-raising testimony.

—I will follow you beyond the ends of the earth.—

"I know you will, and yet _you _know what I will entreat you to do if it comes down to it." _Keep on living. _

Hanxin knows, and he rebels. —Don't you dare ask that of me again.—

"Such insubordination," he murmurs fondly. "But look how well it all turned out. You kept on living, and I kept on living too, and now we can keep on living together. Who's to say it won't turn out the same this time around?"

Lu Ten traces a tender finger over the back of Hanxin's hand holding the brush, and he lays it down, defeated.

LLL

Hanxin insists on bringing his _erhu _this time instead of his lute, which had been his steadfast companion throughout their years of battle.

"It's so fragile, though; aren't you worried it will break?" Lu Ten asks, trailing his light touch down the thin neck of the instrument and the frail bow attached to its strings.

He catches Lu Ten's hand in motion, tracing an answer on his palm. —It is my voice.—

Lu Ten understands. Back then, when Hanxin had full command of his speech, the lute merely served as an accompaniment to his vocals, its plucked chords providing tasteful background music as he swayed hearts and souls with his lyrics. Now that is gone, but in its place, the _erhu _sings for him, its long, bowed melodies as close to approximating the human voice as any instrument made of inanimate wood. It can be mournful or joyous, intense or playful, spanning all ranges of emotion with ease. It is the ideal medium for Hanxin to convey himself.

So be it. They set out for the wide world armed thus, knowing that nothing can defeat them as long as they remain hand in hand, hearts and souls entwined.

* * *

**A/N**: Writing notes largely discuss Lu Ten, Zuko, Aang, and Hanxin's nature. This is so bizarre, especially that bit: "Lu Ten realizes that it must be the one Aang made for Zuko, given in turn to Hanxin when they met." I have never name-dropped 4 main characters in one sentence; there's just too much going on here xD

archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/53829652


	11. AZULA: Whole Tile

**A/N:** Explicit f/f sex in this chapter. If you want to skip it, stop reading after: "how terrible it is to love something that can die." Resume reading at: "This short, blissful period of Azula's days cannot persist." (Lol spoiler alert)

* * *

_20 May. _**AZULA**

"How far out of town are we going?" Azula asks. "Shouldn't we have taken the ostrich-horse?"

"Oh, not to worry," Song reassures her, gait a blithe skip down the path, basket swinging on her arm. "The slopes around here are too steep for Snowy with both of us on her back; we'll be better off on foot. Plus, I have you to save me from bad guys, right?"

A rascally smile, so inconceivable on Song's innocent lips, and yet so perfectly placed. Azula averts her eyes, annoyed with her frivolous thoughts.

"The ingredients I need for _simiao _prefer to grow on secluded sites of these mountains, but there's something else I want to show you. It's worth the hike; you'll never see anything more fantastic in nature."

AAA

"Are we done yet?" Azula grumbles. Their baskets are full of plant parts: cork tree bark, _niu xi _root, coix seed, and other fragrant compounds whose names she didn't catch when Song explained their use. _I'm sure she and my mother would get along swimmingly with all this herbal nonsense._

"_No_," Song says reprovingly. "We're missing _cang zhu _root, and it's only found in a steep forested ravine on the other side of the peak we're currently on. We still need to climb quite a bit, but what's the hurry? It's the journey that matters, not the destination."

_Oh, hellfire, I am not in the mood for more quotables today. _Azula generally never is.

They stop for a lunch break on the side of a barely visible path overrun with vegetation. The exertion has raised a light sweat on Azula's face; she's surprised at how much deconditioning she's experienced these past few weeks wandering alone without enough to eat. Her hair is beginning to slip from the generous bun pinned on top of her head, and the fallen strands gather at the nape of her neck, hot and heavy and irritating.

"Let me help you with that," Song offers. Azula pauses, confused, as Song slips behind her, teasing the hairpin out of its hold and combing through her loose hair with long, gentle strokes. "This is why I always braid my hair: it's simple but pretty, stays in place forever, and doesn't get in the way. Don't you think so?"

Azula hm's in response, less concerned with answering and more lulled to comfortable indolence as Song continues to card through her hair patiently, determined to fix every strand into neat compliance. She divides her bounty into three parts, braiding them together with calm precision.

"You're always in such a hurry to get to where you're going," she observes. "But then you'll miss out on the fun things in life. We weren't born into this world just to live and die without enjoying ourselves."

Azula thinks about it, how vastly different their lives were since birth. _What was I born for? To lead the nation in firebending and claiming the rest of the world for our own, and when I failed—to die. _

What was Song born for? To pass her days in a sleepy country village without seeing much of the world beyond it, taking comfort in the small beauties and gifts that life brings.

_What would you choose if you had had the choice at birth? _

She shakes her head, chastising her foolish internal monologue. She didn't have the choice, and she will never have it. To ponder what-if's is futile and a waste of time.

"Stay still," Song reprimands without heat. "When's the last time you did something for fun?"

She can't remember. The rain dance under a lightning storm that left her soaked and sickly? She wouldn't say that was much _fun—_more like a cathartic, pained scream to the universe. The Agni Kai with Zuko? Certainly she enjoyed sparring as equals with her brother for the first time in forever, but what happened thereafter leaves a decidedly bitter taste on her tongue.

Song finishes up and replaces the hairpin at the base of her braid, her hair now neat and pristine in a thick rope down her back. She clucks her tongue at Azula's non-answer but doesn't seem surprised at the lack of response.

These past few months have been struggle after struggle, but there has been room for happiness to shine through. Every time Haru told a stupid joke or did something endearingly chivalrous, much as Azula tried to deny it at the time. All the times they escaped from near death, flying out of the clutches of a murderous spirit-owl, climbing a mountain just like this one in search of her elusive brother… there was light amid the darkness. Now there is only darkness, in the absence of the Avatar and the comet looming close on the horizon.

"You're familiar with the _simiao _preparation, the Four Wonders for the treatment of gout," she says, inspired. "Let me now introduce you to another _simiao _recipe: the Wonders of Death."

Song blinks, puzzled but curious at her pronouncement. Azula closes her eyes, remembering the ingredients and instructions scrawled in an old book yellowing with age, and begins to recite it.

"One handful of wisteria seeds, a sprig of yew leaves, and three stalks whispering starbloom; roast them and crush them into dry powder; strain with fresh spring water; boil it into tea; one cupful is enough to assure your eternal rest. If you want to wake up after eight hours, add the antidote: a handful of _bingxu _grass infused in the tea, but you must make sure to add it more than five minutes after the tea boils, because its active compounds are destroyed by extreme heat."

That's what her mother's recipe book had said, anyways. This poison and antidote compound helped her and Haru escape from the Fire Nation's hold into the vast, unsearchable world: the only kindness her mother had ever showed her, unintentionally, long after she left her children behind forever. It allows the user to hold death and life in their hands and choose where fate takes them.

"Why are you telling me this?" Song asks.

"Because…" _Because the Earth Kingdom will fall, and you should at least be able to choose how you die. _Azula thinks of her brother, pierced by lightning; Jinora, voice hoarse from coughing; dozens of Fire Nation soldiers drowning under a moonless sky; all the death that has marred her path from the beginning. She does not want that for Song, though neither does she want to explore the reasons why.

"You lost your love for life long ago, Peony," Song intuits, perceptive as always. "I thought as much when I first found you naked and shivering, half-dead in a pond by yourself. We need to fix that."

Azula frowns, not pleased at the thought of needing fixing. Doesn't she, though?

"Come on," Song says. "We've still got a long way to go."

AAA

As they meander out of the forested patch of hills that directly abuts the village, Azula stops short, overcome by the stunning sight before her. Far across the valley rises an imposing mountain range, its peaks divided into ridges that look like the fingers of a giant resting earth god. More impressive than their height, though, is the array of colors that grace their slopes: all hues of the spectrum, from vermilion red to dusky orange to gold and copper and hints of seafoam green and turquoise. The colors are arrayed in surprisingly straight lines, as if a painter had drawn each streak across a broad stone canvas stretching over the mountains.

She stares, speechless at the grandiosity of nature, unable to believe her eyes. Beside her, Song smiles, more radiant than the gala of colors arrayed before them. "Isn't it amazing?"

"Mm." She ambles down the path a bit, viewing the range from a slightly different angle. "Yes, it is."

"That's all you've got?" Song kneels down, having found the _cang zhu _root she's been after, leaving Azula to continue gaping at the rainbow mountains.

Part of Azula wants to scoff and throw out a cynical comment: 'It's just a landscape, idle scenery that has no impact on the course of history.' Something jaded, juvenile, self-important. But she cannot. She has no words for this beauty.

"What _can _I say?" She shrugs. "This is the natural world, vast and unnervingly beautiful, doing nothing but to remind me of how insignificant my human life in the grand scheme of things. How long have these mountains been here? Centuries? Millennia? They will still be here long after we're gone. Nothing we do matters, at least not to them."

"That's not quite true." Song shakes the dirt off a rather grasping root, flicking particles at Azula playfully. "Legend has it that this mountain range was formed by the Avatar five hundred years ago. This used to be a wide plain, below sea level, before the Avatar pushed an entire continent into this region, creating the mountain range between the two landmasses."

"And I supposed they magicked a giant paintbrush and doused the mountainside in garish gaudiness as well?"

"No, the colors are due to different mineral compositions of the stone that makes up the mountains. That is nature's work alone. But it just goes to show that we as humans can change the world significantly."

"That's the _Avatar _you're talking about," Azula points out. "The Avatar is not a regular human."

"But the Avatar is a symbol of hope for other people." Song straightens up, setting her basket down on a nearby ledge. "The Avatar gives us strength to continue our lives and faith that the future holds better things for us."

"The Avatar is dead," Azula says bluntly. _I killed him. _

"How do you know?"

She cannot answer that.

AAA

Mountains may crumble and fall, rivers may dry up and disappear. If this is supposed to make her want to live another day, it isn't working. But as she turns her back on the rainbow mountains, she turns towards Song, her deep, dark eyes like an obsidian quarry. There lies her prize, beautiful and transient, and _oh—_how terrible it is to love something that can die.

AAA

"You're nervous. Don't be."

Azula hesitates in the doorway that night. Song has already shed her outer robe, looking even smaller than usual in plain white undergarments. Azula scowls, stepping into the room but lingering in the periphery, wondering how this is meant to go. _Do we just… start doing it? Who does what? How do you know when one action concludes and the next should begin? What cues am I supposed to read? Gods this is far too complicated, how do people ever engage in this kind of activity?  
_

"Stop," Song commands, tone gentle but firm. "This doesn't warrant that much thinking." She steps in front of Azula, taking her by one hand and leading her to the bed.

They have lain together in this same bed every night, but this time, they get in with a heavy sense of significance, and Azula ducks her head in embarrassment, unable to look Song in the eyes. A tender hand alights on the curve of her jaw, cupping her face with infinite gentleness and emotion, and she lets Song bring her into a longing kiss, filled with the words she is afraid to say: _I want this. I want you. I want to feel everything that we can possibly feel together, two as one. _

Their kiss deepens, fingers curling behind napes of necks, arms around each other's shoulders as Azula pushes into that heady sensation, bearing down on Song's slighter figure until she topples onto her back. She bounces a little on the mattress, smiling up at Azula as their kiss is broken.

"You're still thinking too much," she reprimands, reaching up and tracing a finger down Azula's cheek.

Azula pauses, quite distracted by those starry eyes and kiss-swollen lips. Song takes that opportunity to maneuver herself around so that she's situated between Azula's outstretched legs, sitting back to her chest, entirely in her lap. She rests her head on Azula's shoulder easily, leaning back, utterly relaxed.

"You're allowed to do anything," she says, pulling one hand to her lips, kissing the back of it so casually, not at all concerned about the fumbling stranger at her back. "Nothing is off limits."

She lays Azula's hand down on her chest, sensitively close to her bosom, perhaps hinting at something? Azula doesn't know where to begin, but she can't dither any longer or Song will think her truly incompetent. She pulls the girl to her chest, tighter, more possessive, burying her nose at the base of her scalp, inhaling that lovely fragrance of mixed herbs that follows the young doctress everywhere.

_You are allowed. _

Teeth and tongue on that fine collarbone and neck, slender and extended at her touch like rough jade carved and hewn into elegance by her ministrations. A tender earlobe caught between her teeth, and she remembers that she has a pair of free hands with which she can wreak more sensation and utterly destroy the beauty in her arms.

She shifts to encircle Song entirely, and one hand brushes across the sash that fastens her top at the waist, seeking to loosen it. Song must feel her hesitate, a nearly imperceptible slowing of her forward drive, and she loops one arm behind Azula's neck, clutching her closer. "That's right," she whispers. "Don't hold back."

She hooks her chin over Song's shoulder from behind. It _is _easier this way; there's much to be said for Song's creative genius in bed. Without that doll-like, dreamy face to distract her from her prize, she can focus her attention on the labile body spread out before her, waiting, longing for her touch.

She slips one hand between the folds of Song's robe, feeling the swell of her breasts, soft, pliable, the valley between those peaks not particularly pronounced. She dips deeper, one hand resting on her belly, other hand reaching to cup one breast fully. A rosy brown nipple pricks to her touch, a hitched gasp as she massages that precious bud.

"_Oh…"_

Perfection in her arms, a rapturous sigh, Song tilting her head back even farther in ecstasy, and Azula takes the opportunity to kiss up the exposed length of her neck. She unwraps Song's robe even farther, her upper body exposed, breasts pale and lovely in the low light. They lift slightly, bouncing a little as Song adjusts her arms to wrap around Azula's torso, longing for more contact even in this contorted position.

There's something so compelling about the way Song writhes in her lap, moaning softly as Azula returns to caress her bosom, both hands trailing over her delicate skin, crossing her wrists to circle opposite nipples like she would do to herself if she were in the habit of doing so.

"Are you _sure _you haven't done this before?" she gasps out, and Azula feels a rush of oddly placed pride at how undone the other girl becomes. "Seems I haven't much to teach you. Unless…?"

She takes one of Azula's hands, pulling it down lower, resting it on her clothed thigh, seeking, unsure. Azula knows what to do in theory, but actually carrying it out is… daunting.

"It's alright. I want you to." Ensue more wriggling, and at last, she scrambles out of her bottoms, perfectly unsussed about her nakedness. The same can't be said for Azula, and she almost has to steel herself as she rests one hand on Song's belly, just above a rough patch of coarse dark hair that hides the way to secret places. _Come on, Azula. _

The first touch is hesitant, superficial, dry fingertips against dry lips, almost uncomfortable in their friction, and Song squirms against her. "More," she urges. "We won't get anywhere if you're afraid to come inside."

The second touch is deeper, venturing between soft folds and finding that the flesh therein is silky and so hot, moist, grabbing at her fingers, pulling them in.

"That's what you did to me," Song breathes, audibly affected. "That's why we started up top and worked our way down. What did I teach you? Life is about the journey, not the destination, and so is sex."

_Fuck…_

Song shows Azula how to gather the moisture that rises to her touch, easing the glide of her fingertips, how to harvest it for other uses. She guides Azula's fingers to the juncture of her folds, a formed nub that feels firmer than the rest of the tissue there, almost pulsating with warmth and passion.

"Pure penetrative sex won't do the trick for most women," she tells Azula. "Men will think that the sordid in and out of their organ is all you need, but the real goodness is in the friction, right here."

Azula swirls her fingers over that tiny bud, brushing over it directly, and Song hisses at the sensation. She falls into a hesitant rhythm, circular in nature, rotating one direction, then the next, interspersed with broad vertical strokes, unsure of what's going on, really. But the spontaneity of her actions seems to goad Song on, the unpredictability of every move driving the girl to further heights with every passing second. She writhes and twists in Azula's embrace, cherry red lips parted like the petals of the blossoms, mimicking the gradual bloom of her sex down below.

Panting, gasping, her cries steadily rise in pitch, and Azula finds herself dizzy and drunk on the sound of that ecstasy, peaking abruptly, without warning. Song's grip on her back tenses, fingers digging in to her skin with a choked off moan, her precious bud impossibly slick and hard, and Azula watches, fascinated, as the folds of her sex pulsate, contracting as if mirroring the beat of her heart under Azula's free hand.

So foreign, so delightful… so vulnerable. Azula shudders in sympathy as Song gasps through the aftershocks of her climax. There's a pleasant flush to her cheeks, her forehead sweat-slicked, with loose strands of hair sticking to it, a rumpled and roughened appearance, but altogether, so lovable.

AAA

"You see?" Song whispers as Azula's exhausted thighs fold into a wanton butterfly plait, utterly uncaring as they spread open and expose herself before the other girl. Song sits up and wipes her mouth casually, having brought her to completion with her skilled tongue and lips alone. "It's better to be whole tile."

Azula draws her legs up, trying to squeeze out those final spasms from her shaking climax. She reaches down between, sliding a finger through the copious secretions drawn from her willing body by Song's talent.

"Absolve yourself of whatever role in life you thought you had to play before this. Who are you now? What are you now? Those are the questions for you to answer next."

"Yours, and yours alone." Azula brings her finger to her mouth. The taste is salty, sweaty, but not unpleasant.

Song laughs brightly, the sound like merry raindrops pattering on the rooftop. "So you do know how to flirt. That's one less thing to teach you, then."

They fall asleep like that, eyes and lips bright with a gently simmering joy, a rare creature in these latter days.

AAA

They spend the days together in such bliss, tending to the clinic by day, passing the time with whatever pleases their fancy, and enjoying the golden strains they wring from pleasured bodies by night. It is by all definitions of the word, 'fun', an altogether unfamiliar feeling in Azula's life.

She shows Song the moves of the rain dance, the front yard her humble stage, without the accompanying rain this time. Song watches her paces with a sparkle in her eyes, tracking each individual gesture avidly.

"You amaze me," Song says plainly when Azula finishes. "Whoever taught you these forms did their research. Many of the poses are well-suited to optimizing the flow of _chi _through the organs. Yes, I know a fair bit about _chi _paths, as a medical practitioner," she says in response to Azula's skeptical frown. "Nonbenders use _chi _as well; it just doesn't manifest as bending."

_Perhaps it manifests instead in the form of perfect, idealized love and compassion, _Azula hypothesizes, thoughts mirrored in the genteel face before her. _Who knows. _

"You never fail to surprise me, Peony," Song says. She draws close to Azula, wrapping her in a quick embrace, her frame tiny, head only coming up to Azula's collarbone. "One day, I'll figure you out."

"For your own good, I hope that day never comes," Azula dares to say, exuding desirability through mystery, maybe? It seems to work on Song, who goes up on tiptoes to sneak a kiss just as her mother comes out of the house.

_Uh… _Azula tenses, but Song shows no sign of discomfort, turning beaming to her mother, who has brought them a pot of tea. She bounds toward the porch for a cup, and her mother descends into the courtyard to bring one to Azula herself.

"Do teach her what you can in the martial arts, Peony," Song's mother implores, having watched their activities from the house. "I've let her roam wild all these years, but she needs to be able to fend for herself at least."

Azula nods in understanding. "Of course."

Song's mother regards her with soft eyes, tired but true, with just a trace of the merriment and clarity of her daughter's. "The two of you are… good for each other. You'd never guess it, but Song's actually been quite subdued since her father went to war three years ago. Not a single letter from him; our messages go unanswered…" She shakes her head sadly, implying the cause of her husband's silence.

Azula takes a sip of her tea, catching her reflection in the clear, golden pool. She looks surprised. No one has ever called her "good" for anyone else on a personal level. That's never been the virtue she's aspired to embody, but she's glad that Song's mother approves.

AAA

"My mother likes you." She lays kisses down Azula's neck nonchalantly, the drift of her lips as thoughtful and prudent as the clever magic of her fingers far below. Their bodies know each other, naked skin pressing together, a scant barrier between their souls. "Thinks you're devastatingly competent."

"Mm…" Azula vaguely registers this praise, too distracted by Song's adoration. "Fuck… yes—"

Song mouths gently at one nipple, that same monumental care accompanying every move. "What I mean to say is that she wouldn't mind if you stayed permanently."

Open-mouthed kisses on the ticklish skin of her belly, and Azula stares up at the ceiling, somewhat dumbfounded.

"She knows my father isn't coming back, and without any sons to carry on our line, what does it matter what becomes of our family anyways? I'm not exactly overwhelmed with marriage options in this village."

It's the most depressingly defeatist sentiment Song's ever expressed; she must have overheard Azula's conversation with her mother this afternoon. Despite her despondence, there is an invitation in her mood and the way she delves lower to attend to Azula's aching need with her tongue. A promise, a teasing, tentative promise for more.

"Think about it," she urges between long, lascivious licks. "It's nothing so unusual during times of war, for women to band together for support."

Azula tries to think about it in spite of the growing pleasure between her legs, a disarming well of sensation. _Could this become my life? _She imagines it. _Could I erase my past entirely, start over anew?_

She longs for it: to fit into Song's life like a perfectly crafted roof tile: ordinary, just like all the rest, but functional and whole, satisfied with her place in life. _Is this my destiny, then?_ Stumbled upon by chance, a lucky draw, a happy conclusion.

Wishful thinking.

AAA

_23 May. _

This short, blissful period of Azula's days cannot persist. Soon enough, that which she's been running from knocks on their front door in the form of a traveling merchant from the southwest edge of the mountain range.

"A whole regiment of ashmakers marching east wanted to garrison at Lulong for the night before continuing on to Ba Sing Se." He winces as Song unwraps the bandages on a three-day-old burn on his right forearm. The flesh there is lobster-red, painful-looking though not oozing anything questionable.

"Guess I rubbed 'em the wrong way asking questions and such." He grips the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening; Song's touch is gentle, but there is no way to avoid irritating the delicate wound.

"I was just trying to look out for my cabbage business, see where I should take myself next. Armies have to eat, too," he reasons. _Gods, he's chatty for someone who straight up got burned for being too nosy. Zuko wasn't half as garrulous after the Agni Kai… well, that's a different story. _

She places a bowl of water down by Song's hand but lingers, wondering if she can take advantage of his loose tongue. "What did they tell you?" she asks casually. "Will you be striking it rich supplying the Fire Nation armies with fresh produce?"

"Well, maybe not _this _particular regiment, considering what a poor start we got off to, but there'll be others to follow," Cabbage Merchant informs her excitedly. "Basically, the Western outposts are emptying. Every colony and garrison on the coast is sending their forces to Ba Sing Se. Even the Fire Lord's personal aircraft will lead the fleet from their base far to the west. They'll spare no man nor expense on this attack. It'll be a bloody summer solstice."

He shrugs, seemingly unfazed, and Song clamps down on his shoulder to keep him still as she dabs disinfectant on his wound. Perhaps he's only concerned with his prospects as an entrepreneur, but his words strike dread into Azula's heart.

The Fire Nation is making no secret of their battle plans. They are totally convinced of their victory, and when they win, there will be nowhere for Azula to flee.

She is resolved, then. She will not hide here, cowering and waiting for death. She will seek out her father before he finds her, and whatever happens then, she leaves up to fate. The taste of courage is bittersweet and strong in her mouth.

AAA

Song doesn't make any mention of Azula's changed mood if she notices it. They go to bed as usual that night, soft caresses and tender sighs anointing their pillows. Azula feels that charged joy swelling in her core, the elation of being so intimate with another person, of letting someone get this close to her and trusting them to do no harm. It is all kinds of delightful and exalting, and Azula lies awake after Song drifts off from the intensity of their climax, watching the other girl in sleep.

_I have to go. Maybe not for her sake, for their sake. _If Azula leaves, who will protect Song and her mother from the next lot of roving bandits, or the Fire Nation invaders celebrating their victory under the comet's vile halo? But if she does not leave… one day, they will come for her. _Either way, we all die_. The only choice that remains to her is how meaningful her death will be.

She thinks of Song's heart bared to her, wishing for her to stay with them forever, away from the troubles of the harried, warmongering world. _Could this become my life? _She knows that even then, it was never truly a question with her. _Of course not. _

She manages to tear herself away as the midnight sky starts to lighten, a few hours before dawn. She gathers her possessions and slips out of the house. Snowy the ostrich-horse is hitched at the gate, whinnying quietly at her and wondering if she has any oats. A dilemma faces her now: if she is to reach the airship base at the western tip of the Earth Kingdom in time to intercept her father, she needs a faster ride than her own two feet. But after all the kindness Song and her mother have shown her, she can't just steal their beast of burden.

She wavers at the gate, hand reaching for the bridle to lead it Azula of not so long ago would have done it in cold blood. The Azula of not so long ago would swig poison like wine, destroy an Empire class navy battleship at will, erase countless lives without a thought for her own soul. But not today. Her hands drop to her side, defeated.

"Just take her."

_Shit, why— _She turns, face flushed with guilt, to see Song standing on the porch, lovely as the day they met, her ever-present smile dancing in her eyes, her lips.

"What?"

"Just take her." Song approaches, unhitching the beast from its post and handing Azula the reins. "Snowy's not fast, but she's strong and sturdy. She'll take you wherever you need to go, for as long as you need her."

_Why…? _Gods, it's _spirit-eyes _and Song the free-spirited doctress once again, conflating themselves in her heart. Warm stones on her aching back and gentle hands bathing her weak body, a silver peony hairpin and cherry red lips on a plum blossom face. Laughing together, living together, walking in high places and facing darkness and fear hand in hand. Two warming her life with their hearts of gold, like Bian He's jade—coarse and unrefined at first appearance, but flawless and pure inside. _Why must you be like this. _

"I can't," she chokes out, angry at herself for even thinking about crying at this time. This is stupid; she should just say goodbye and flee into the darkness. She can outrun Song with ease.

"You have to," Song says calmly. "I know you're not like me. You talk of the war as if you play a part in the conflict, unlike the rest of us who just face the deluge as it washes over us. There's something you have to do, and this is the only way I can help you."

"I haven't been entirely truthful with you." She feels she owes it to Song to tell her.

"I know." Song reaches for her hand, clasping it so reverently that she feels sick to her stomach. She smiles at Azula's confused look. "The bathwater the other day—you got up so late that it had to have gone cold already, but you didn't complain or come looking for more hot water. The way you fought with fire against the bandits—I'd expected the whole house to be set aflame when you picked up the torch. And the lantern on the porch that night? It glowed blue right after you threw your portrait in my face and stomped off in a huff."

She's even more perceptive than Jinora, heavens save me. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"You were truthful with me in the ways that mattered. It doesn't matter to me what your real name or identity is, Peony. All that matters to me as a doctor and as a person is that you be truthful about how I can help you." She pulls Azula close by the hand that she clasps, enveloping her in a warm hug and resting her head on Azula's shoulder. "You let me in, and you trusted me to help you."

This is not making it any easier to leave.

"Promise me one thing?"

"Hm?"

"Come back to see me once this is all over if you can. If you can't… I'll understand."

Azula pulls away and solemnly cups Song's face in one hand. With the other, she reaches back and undoes her hairpin, silver and peony spilling jet black down her back. She takes the pin and tucks it into Song's braid where it nestles, twinkling and merry in the porchlight.

"Thank you. For everything."

A long, crushing kiss, foreheads pressed to each other, then a lingering, soulful gaze as she mounts her steed and breaks eye contact, cantering away urgently, not wanting to see the tears glittering in Song's eyes as they part for the first and last time.

* * *

**A/N**: Writing notes: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/54508492

Discussing rainbow mountains, herbs, femslash.


	12. LU TEN: Mobilizing

_24 May – 15 June. _**LU TEN**

Their first stop in the Earth Kingdom is Yu Dao. The City of Jade is beautiful in its ornate architecture—inspired by Fire Nation customs back home, Lu Ten notes, but with more solid foundations and practicality. Multistory towers are scattered along the skyline, long enclosed bridges of sturdy bamboo connecting them at different levels, some even serving as stepwise ladders to the ground. It is the most cosmopolitan city in the land that he and Hanxin have been to besides Ba Sing Se—the war never gave them time to visit more urban areas. The streets are narrow, the skies above them crisscrossed with streamers and bright banners gaily draped from balconies. Eely remains hitched at the watchmen's stable outside the gates, too large to ride within the city.

There's a distinct lack of official Fire Nation presence here; it's nothing like Yingdu, where he and Jet were so rapidly apprehended by patrols. Conversely, Lu Ten is bedazzled on all sides by banners advertising wares from home, craftsmen's stands claiming to specialize in unique Fire Nation arts like glassblowing and candle-ink calligraphy. At the next barbeque stand along their path (it's almost midday, and his stomach rumbles plaintively), a man roasts a brace of hog-chickens with firebending.

He pauses to ask the barbeque shop owner for directions, as well as the situation behind the city's eclectic demographic. The man explains with gusto. "A few months ago, just before the new year, General Guo's son returned from Ba Sing Se and led a charge to run the Fire Nation occupiers out of town for good. Our militia prevailed against those ash-makers, and most of the civilians went with them. Those with ties to Earth Kingdom families were allowed to stay, though." He sniffs haughtily, evidently against the general's decision. "We've known nothing but peace since, for the first time in decades."

_Yet here we are, poised to stir the pot and start up the chilling breeze once again, _Lu Ten laments.

LLL

_Master Piandao regards his former student calmly when Lu Ten and Hanxin arrive at his manor. Fat imitates his master, showing them in with an unimpressed scowl as if he had not just introduced the Azure Dragon of the East who has supposedly been dead for five years. _

_"Master," he greets. "I… I'm back." _

_He feels foolish saying it, having left this place at sixteen not expecting to ever return. He doubts Piandao has been waiting for him all this time, yet the master shows no sign of surprise. _

_"Jeong Jeong sent word a few days ago," he explains. "You did well by coming here, Lu Ten. I do not recognize your companion, though."_

_"Hanxin is… my heart." He stumbles over the awkward designation, realizing that it sounds overly drenched with emotion in a decidedly somber situation. "We fought side by side for years, and I would feel out of place if we did not continue thus."_

_Piandao doesn't seem to mind, as Hanxin inclines his head in greeting. "Well met." _

_The master tasks them with dredging the far-flung parts of the Earth Kingdom for recruits to the White Lotus's army. As the situation stands now, the northwest territories are relatively untapped. The White Lotus's main corps hails largely from the wealthier southern and western parts of the kingdom, but they cannot afford to leave any potential allies unsourced. _

_Judging by the grim look on Hanxin's face, he too notices the irony. When Lu Ten fought for the Fire Nation, his work consisted of preventing Earth Kingdom recruits from reaching Ba Sing Se, keeping the enemy from receiving aid. Now he must do the exact opposite. _

LLL

Guo Bang, former leader of the Food Liberation Comrades on the ferry from Ba Sing Se, is in fact General Guo's eldest son. He had been studying abroad and was on the cusp of graduating with distinction in military strategy from Ba Sing Se University, or so he casually disclosed to Mushi on the ferry. Sadly, his father recalled him home as news of the war grew graver, interrupting his studies but gifting him with the opportunity to reclaim his city from the hands of Fire Nation squatters.

What a golden boy, for one misfortune to open new doors for his prospective future. And here Lu Ten is, about to bestow upon him another scintillating opportunity to prove himself.

The servant at the entrance to the estate eyes their travel-worn, conspicuously non-native garb in suspicion but agrees to take a message to the young master. Not long thereafter, Guo Bang meets them at the gate.

"Mushi! Didn't expect you to visit all of a sudden," he exclaims. "…Why are you wearing that?"

Guo Bang can't see him smirking through the long veil of the wide-brimmed hat that he purchased on the way here. Its light rattan weave is lined with dense, gauzy fabric that protects him from any wandering gaze. "Ran into a bit of trouble on the road—the left side of my face is hardly presentable. Nothing to worry about," he reassures as Guo Bang hovers in concern. "How did you know it was me?"

The young master snorts, less out of derision than general resignation to his guest's whims. "Your calling card was the last stanza of Lu Tong's 'Seven Bowls of Tea'. Who else would make a grand entrance out of the blue with all that drivel?

Lu Ten chuckles lightly, unable to deny the truth.

"Anyways, come on. My father has guests over, but he'll be delighted to meet you. Are you sure you want to keep that hat on in front of him? Who's with you, by the way?"

Guo Bang's current effusiveness is a stark contrast to his rather grim composure back on the ferry from Ba Sing Se not long ago. Amazing how much joy evicting the Fire Nation from your hometown can bring.

"I've long heard that General Guo is an informal and kindly man," Lu Ten says diplomatically as they pass through several successive sets of gates. "I'm sure he'll excuse my less-than-orthodox appearance and companion. Hanxin, if you would?"

They pause a moment in a foyer that probably leads to where the general is entertaining his guests. The residence reeks of luxury: folding screens purely decorative in purpose; a solid gold pai sho set on an ivory table in the corner; walls plastered with ceiling-height scrolls of calligraphy and watercolors—no expense was spared here.

Hanxin readjusts the veil more securely. Lu Ten's hands come up to help, intentionally revealing how both their sleeves are cut raggedly at the hems. When he bought the hat, he'd had the ingenuity to also borrow a pair of scissors to make these wardrobe revisions, and Guo Bang's sudden silence suggests his comprehension. At least he doesn't seem to hold anything against those who indulge in the passion of the cut sleeve.

They follow him across another threshold, through maze-like corridors traversing quaint rock gardens, until they finally come to a spacious courtyard. The music of the _qin _drifts from a shaded pavilion, tranquilly accompanied by the sound of bubbling water. A simple fountain of obliquely cut bamboo pipes supplies an elegant canal occupying the center of the courtyard. The flow of water mimics the shape of a lily pad, smooth-edged but irregular in contour.

At the head of the fountain sits the general. Six years have not aged him well; he looks like he could be Guo Bang's grandfather.

"Father, this is Mushi, whom I met during my travels in Ba Sing Se, and his companion, Hanxin."

A delicate inflection on the word 'companion' is enough for those present to garner his meaning. The two of them bow in the Earth Kingdom style, and their matching sleeves reinforce the point. Thus, when the servants bring an additional serving table, no place setting is provided for Hanxin, and he kneels at Lu Ten's side, slightly in his shadow.

"Please excuse my indecorous dress, sir," Lu Ten says. "The road here was riddled with bandits, and though I am recovering quickly, I am still in no condition to foist my face upon your esteemed guests."

"Not to worry, young man," Guo reassures with jollity. "You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need. Our hospitality does not know the limits of time."

Ensue mild inquiries into the location of his hometown ("the northwest territories"; no further questions asked, as the noble general is unfamiliar with that impoverished region), his reasons for traveling here ("a change of scenery"), his ease with poetry ("My enthusiasm outweighs my small skill which cannot hope to compare with yours, sir"). After this requisite small talk, the elder Guo finally introduces his company, consisting of seven or eight ministerial-appearing men gathered around the fountain's canal.

"We were just about to get started when you arrived. What do you say to a rousing game, Mushi?"

Mushi would be delighted.

The rules are simple: a floating bowl of wine is placed into the canal such that it winds its way downriver and every so often bumps into the ridges, stopping in front of one lucky soul who must then drink and recite a poem. There are no winners, but whoever recites the most impressive poem with appropriate drama and spirit might be considered the champion. On the periphery of the courtyard, the _qin _provides refined background music for their poetic pursuits.

_Let the game begin, then. _Privately, Lu Ten hopes it will lend him the opportunity to win the prize he came here for.

LLL

It's not that he doesn't enjoy beautiful verses, but the poetry at this afternoon party is so terribly droll and uninspiring. Lu Ten tries to keep a neutral face, though the veil hides everything anyways. Poor Hanxin has to maintain a polite façade before the pompous recitations going around the circle.

The shallow bowl of wine pauses at Guo Bang, and he raises it in a toast to his father before embarking on his poem.

_Vermilion aurora enfolds the bright moon_

_Twinkling stars peer out of the clouds_

_Heaven casts down splendid hues_

_How lustrous the five colors! _

_Our lifespan is not that of lofty pine _

_Who can claim immortality? _

_Let us wander to our heart's content_

_And pass a hundred years of peace. _

If Lu Ten had to guess, this poem is of Guo Bang's own composition: lurid in its elementary descriptions, mistaking imagery for exaltation, highbrow and hopelessly naïve. _How do you expect to pass a hundred years of peace when a comet is coming next month to obliterate life as you know it? _

Hanxin subtly tugs on the back of his veil, signaling him to maintain his composure. _Just wait your turn. _

"My compliments, Young Master, for your apt composition," one older man gushes. Minister of Finance, Lu Ten guesses, judging by his official headwear; either that or Public Works. The style of hat is reminiscent of Fire Nation officials holding similar posts in larger localities. It's likely that some cultural exchange occurred before Guo Bang ousted Yu Dao's occupiers.

"Beautifully executed—it's not for nothing that they say you are your father's son," another man toadies. _Gods, when will this end? _

A servant sets a fresh cup of wine afloat down the canal. It pauses before Minister Pai, a wizened man with drooping lips and a non-insignificant tremor afflicting his right hand.

"I recite this poem to honor General Guo today." He bows, the bowl of wine dangerously close to spilling onto his sleeves, and drinks.

A few lines in, Lu Ten recognizes the poem: the "Short Song Style" attributed to Mengde, a feudal warlord known for reuniting much of the western Earth Kingdom after the chaos of Chin the Conqueror's death. Its concluding stanza is particularly telling as to the ambition of the Guo household.

_Mountains do not despise height, seas do not despise depth_

_The sage pauses when guests call, so at his feet the empire does fall_

Who is the sage in question? Naturally, it refers to the patriarch presiding over this self-congratulatory gathering. He smiles and claps benevolently as his ministers stroke his ego, fancying himself a sage king, lord of Yu Dao, the jewel of the western Earth Kingdom. It is obvious from whom Guo Bang derives his imperial aspirations. He started by routing the invaders from his hometown; Lu Ten can capitalize on that and encourage them to expunge the Fire Nation from the kingdom entirely.

But what happens afterwards? The Earth King dances on marionette strings held by the Dai Li. If the empire survives the day of Sozin's comet, will they have another Chin the Conqueror on their hands in the form of the venerable general or his son?

Well, they'll deal with that when the time comes. For now, Lu Ten has to focus on getting enough support to make it through that dark day.

"Guo Bang, it would appear your friend has something to say. Do encourage him," his father says.

"Eh…" Guo Bang hesitates awkwardly.

Lu Ten clears his throat. "Do forgive me, General Guo. I have a favor to ask."

The next bowl of wine has stopped in front of him, and it is time for a call to action.

"Oh?" The elder Guo sounds dubious. "And do tell, is your visage truly as roughed up as your veil seeks to hide, or do you have other reasons to conceal your appearance?"

"Father, please…" Guo Bang tries to mediate; this is as close to hostility as polite conversation can stray.

"If Your Lordship grants me this one favor, I will gladly reveal myself after reciting this poem." He makes it clear that no answers are to be had in the meantime. "I ask that you allow my companion to accompany me musically instead of your esteemed _qin _master."

Everyone's curiosity is piqued. Hanxin takes his place at the _qin _but makes no move to play. Instead, he unslings the _erhu_ from his back, heretofore unnoticed, and draws its bow over the strings in a lyrical opening melody.

Murmurs echo through the courtyard, surprise, confusion, and distaste. _A foreign instrument? So uncouth—but what do you expect of a raggedy stranger who won't even doff his outlandish hat in present company? Tsk… outrageous, the company the young master keeps, what are our youth coming to these days? _

Enough. He stands and begins his declamation.

* * *

**HANXIN**

"The Song of the White Horse" tells the story of a candid young hero from the northwestern frontier who left home at an early age. His skill as an archer won him fame far and wide, and when his nation was threatened by invaders, he rode to its succor, stopping at nothing to stand between the enemy and those who could not defend themselves.

_Sound familiar? _

The song is known to both of them from years at war, sometimes camping close enough to enemy lines to hear songs of nostalgia floating across no-man's-land.

_Walking on knife's edge in the fatal strife,_

_How could he value his own life?_

_He'd take no heed of his father and mother,_

_Let alone wife, children or any other._

_Of heroes brave his name is on the roll;_

_He cared not when his death knell would toll._

_The nation at stake: he would give his last breath._

_And equate homecoming with his heroic death_

There is no official instrumentation to this piece, so Hanxin improvises. It is no coincidence that his accompaniment echoes the Ballad of the Azure Dragon. Guo the elder is the only one to make the connection, eyebrows raising ever so delicately at first, then blatantly surveying Lu Ten, trying to pierce the thick veil and see if it is who he thinks it is.

HHH

_It is a chilly winter evening when General Guo first meets Lu Ten, son of the Dragon of the West and a formidable leader in his own right. Guo __had paid a visit to General Iroh's camp in an unprecedented plea for a temporary ceasefire. A devastating flu has swept Guo's camp, leaving the regiments under his command unable to muster themselves for proper battle. Moreover, the lunar new year is just days away, and Guo argues that both sides should take this time to rest and celebrate with their brethren in arms in lieu of their absent families. They will regroup for earnest warmongering after the festivities. _

_Iroh hears his plea with a visage of cold, polished jade, remote and untouchable. It is Lu Ten who begs him to pledge honor among soldiers, to not wage war against the weakened enemy for the time being. Hanxin is present as well, relegated by his lower status to the periphery of the war tent, free to observe the power plays in action between these men of authority. _

_Iroh finally agrees, a bizarrely misplaced fondness in his eyes as he watches Lu Ten and Guo engage in mutual bows of respect. _One day, he will learn the realities of harsh war and the sacrifices that must be made_, that look says, almost too tender to be patronizing. _

He has already learned those realities, _Hanxin thinks. _The only difference is that he has chosen to make the same sacrifices that his men do. He will never ask them to give up their lives in battle when he would not do the same.

_Guo leaves that night carrying hope for a better start to the year. Unfortunately, the Earth Kingdom generals more senior than him learn of his unauthorized treaty. They force him to resign his post and return home in shame. His regiments are roused from their sickbeds and compelled to attack the Fire Nation camp. Nevertheless, they are too weak to put up much offense, and the ensuing battle only serves to spit in the face of General Guo and Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten's compassion. _

HHH

"We meet again, General Guo." Lu Ten brushes aside the veil to dramatically reveal his face, unblemished and triumphant.

" I heard you had died." Guo rises from his cushion, too shocked to maintain decorum. "Your father was so wracked with grief that he resigned from battle. How… how is this possible?"

"The Azure Dragon will never die as long as there are people who need him," Lu Ten says simply.

_Ah. You will outlive me then, _Hanxin thinks. A small joy, but it's not nothing.

"Why did you come here then, Azure Dragon?" Guo Bang manages to stop himself from incorrectly uttering 'Mushi'. "To sway us with your verses and claim Yu Dao as your own?"

"Who seeks to sway whom with stunning literary appraisals?" Lu Ten retorts. "Who is the great sage who pauses whatever he's doing when guests call on him? Your honorable father who welcomed me without a second's pause—but will that be enough to win him the empire? It does not matter. If the Fire Nation has its way, there will be no empire.

"The day of Sozin's comet is almost upon us. Sozin was no sage king; he won his realm by brute force, and his descendants are no different. The Fire Nation is planning an unrivaled attack on Ba Sing Se, and unless we have your support, the city will fall, and the rest of the Earth Kingdom will follow."

"I suppose you imagine yourself to be the hero on the white horse," Guo Bang fires back spitefully.

_He really needs to get his priorities straight, _Hanxin thinks with scorn. _This is not the time to be squabbling over empty titles. _

"No, in fact. _You _are the hero who must lead the way." Lu Ten turns to the general instead. "Your Lordship, you have done well by your people in two ways. First, by advocating for your men in trying times against your superiors' orders. And second, by raising a son whose feet are rooted in the Earth Kingdom but whose heart is full of passionate fire for his countrymen.

"In spite of this, if you do not give the command to mobilize Yu Dao's fighting finest soon, you will have no legacy to leave. The Fire Nation will return to this city, more powerful than ever. The choice is yours."

General Guo bows his head, deep in thought. The sun has dipped in the sky, afternoon shadows framing his face in mystery as he considers his options. In that wrinkled forehead and prematurely graying temples rests the self-evident soul of a man penalized for doing the right thing one too many times. It is no wonder that he hesitates this time around.

Guo Bang looks chastised, brash youth giving way to humbled maturity as he awaits his father's decision. It is clear what he wants to do, but he fears that the hopeless ennui of the older generation will hold him back. The fountain bubbles merrily on, unchanged by the world tilting around its axis.

The general raises his head and looks Lu Ten in the eye, the same hope from a chilly winter's night long ago lining his gaze now. The choice was made before Lu Ten arrived.

HHH

"How will they know to welcome us when we show up?" Guo Bang asks him later, after the poetry party has dispersed. "Yu Dao's three thousand can bring our own supplies and make as little disruption as possible, but the White Lotus don't know that. We could be Fire Nation ruffians bent on sowing discord, for all they know."

Lu Ten withdraws something from his sleeve, prepared for this eventuality. It's the glass dragon Zuko gave Hanxin months ago, its azure tones fitting in the hands of its namesake. Without warning, he snaps off one of its wings and hands it to Guo Bang.

"Show them this and tell them that the Azure Dragon of the East sent you."

Guo Bang accepts the token, and see now? —How history repeats itself, a serpentine ouroboros that turns on its own tail ceaselessly. Here Lu Ten is again, carving himself up, mind and body, in the service of a war he did not start. Such is the sacrifice of his love, and it both bolsters and breaks Hanxin to see him standing strong against the tides of war that threaten to sweep him away once more.

* * *

**LU TEN**

They press onwards, praying that their efforts will constitute something more than too little, too late.

Their road takes them toward the mountains of the northern Earth Kingdom where Lu Ten's regiment spent long months guarding against the enemy. He almost believes that he recognizes the same sights and scenes, remembering things that he does not necessarily want to remember.

"The Argent River," he murmurs, reigning Eely in, Hanxin's arms around his waist loosening as they come to a stop. The river before them is vast, grand rapids roiling in turbulent foam. "Do you remember?"

Hanxin nods, hands mimicking the charged gestures that Lu Ten uses to bend lightning, directing the imaginary bolt into the river. Lu Ten recalls the context: the 18th company had once marched in pursuit of an Earth Kingdom unit riding for Ba Sing Se, trying to stop them from crossing this very river. It was late winter before the frost melted, and the river was at its lowest, easily fordable on ostrich-horseback. Their enemy had almost reached its banks, but Lu Ten directed all the lightning he could into the water, electrifying it so that none could cross without instantly being shocked to death. That gave the rest of his men time to surround the enemy unit and force them to surrender.

"I don't even know where that particular unit hailed from, where their hometown stands, if it ended up ravaged and annihilated by invaders," he says tiredly. There were many such instances during the war. They waged so many battles and defeated so many enemies that he could not even remember who he ended up fighting.

"The captain of that particular unit didn't take the threat seriously and gave the order to continue. Then he rode his steed straight into the river." He recalls the man's excruciating end and the example he served for his men, who were much more cooperative. "Another life wasted."

Hanxin's hand on his shoulder, tracings on his collarbone through his shirt. — Not for nothing. —

No, he supposes Hanxin is right. His arrogant death gave his men the freedom to surrender and forego the war, preserving their lives. A noble sacrifice, almost. He clasps Hanxin's hand over his chest, a moment of quiet reflection as they focus on the task facing them.

"There are places for us to be beyond Argent." He pats Eely's flank, urging the eel-hound forward. "Eely can cross on his own; I imagine we'll get sprayed beyond salvation if we ride through these rapids on his back. Let's cross together."

Hanxin turns puzzled eyes on him. "Hang on to me," he warns, wrapping his arms around Hanxin's waist and encircling him in a tight hug before taking off.

* * *

**HANXIN**

_Gods, you could have warned me before dropping my stomach out from under me, _Hanxin flails internally as they soar into the air, Lu Ten's steady jets of fire propelling them over the rapids with ease. He hangs on for dear life as they drift a little too close to the foamy waves and the rocks on which they crash. _Crazy firebender, why do I put up with this. _

Despite his grumbles, he revels in the feeling of Lu Ten pressed so closely to him, his whole body a warm, thrumming furnace that Hanxin can't get enough of. A hearth, a home to return to, and he thinks of how Lu Ten qualified him to Master Piandao. _My heart—_that which keeps Lu Ten alive, and Hanxin's own heart quickens at the thought of the war they are returning to and the likelihood that one or both of them may not see its end.

All too soon, they land on the opposite shore, and his macabre thoughts float away like chaff in the wind, resting instead with his beautiful love, cheeks resplendently pink from the exertion of carrying them both across the water.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Lu Ten asks, only to be met by a lightning kiss, quick but searing.

He shrugs, not sure that he can explain this particular caprice. Lu Ten inspires him to do the wildest things in the hopes of preserving his life and legacy. He will stop at nothing to make sure his love lives on.

HHH

Hopping from place to place, they develop a bit of a script: Lu Ten announces himself as the Azure Dragon, met with incredulity, but after the initial reaction, an older retired soldier will recognize him or his title—aha! "_You _were the one who spared the Gusu regiment back in the day; my brother Lee was in that force." (to which Hanxin has to wonder, _er, which Lee? There were perhaps a dozen_)

Or, _"You _were the one who sent Colonel Mongke and the Rough Rhinos fleeing with their tails between their legs, the cowards!"

Or, "_You _were the one who spent a week rehabilitating injured soldiers from Changshan after their comrades, fleeing your victory, left them behind."

Or, "_You _were the one who garrisoned at Shouxiang without even demanding tributes, weren't you?"

It works better than Hanxin had expected. Looking back on Lu Ten's deeds during the war, it's not difficult to understand why these people, who so recently were on the opposite side of the battlefield, would heed his summons. Aged veterans and young souls alike take up arms, accepting Lu Ten as their ally, as someone they could follow.

_"The Fire Nation is making no secret of the day of Sozin's comet, reveling in the utmost assurance that they will win," Piandao says, rolling up the map on his desk and handing it to Lu Ten. "You are the Azure Dragon. Though you were their enemy during the war, you also rendered countless services to the humble villages of the Earth Kingdom, more than their own sovereign could claim. They will hearken to you and no one else."_

Hanxin knows that feeling well: that unequivocal trust and confidence in his commander to lead him through this darkest of calamities. Each town's unit commander receives a piece of the glass dragon, a wing or a section of its tail, accepted in two reverent hands, a token and a promise: _I will not forsake you._

Lu Ten does not falter throughout all of this, as regal as the Lieutenant Colonel he was, and though he wears no armor now, his twin swords reaffirm the vows he swore as a younger, less burdened captain: to accompany his men even into death.

_It will not come to that. Not if I can help it. _

HHH

Some towns are less than receptive to Lu Ten's call. A couple weeks into their northwest tour, they ride into the cozy enclave of Shouxiang, where the 18th company had stayed to recuperate once. The place seems empty, but Hanxin notices doors that quickly slide shut as they pass, faces peeping around corners and melting away into the anonymity of the alleyways.

He remembers the way to the magistrate's house, but when they arrive, all they find is a nervous butler presiding over the place. Everything is in disarray, household items scattered around the floor and in and out of various boxes as if they're in the process of moving out.

"He's out with the crews blasting holes in the mountain like there's no tomorrow—just took off and left this morning without finishing his breakfast, it was that urgent," the butler gibbers. "Said we all need to move into the mountain as soon as possible, it's the only way to save our village."

That remains to be seen. They head for the foothills on the outskirts of the city. Before long, Hanxin hears the blast of dynamite, the crack of stone split down its seams, the shower of gravel and dust. They ascend a gently sloping dirt path, broad enough for three of Eely. It winds between two steep cliff walls, exiting into an ample clearing amid the surrounding mountains, and here lies the source of the blasting. The edges of the clearing are marred by several crude-looking caves, not natural formations of the mountain, but rather carved out of the cold stone with dynamite and pickaxes, judging by the rubble scattered everywhere.

In and around the manmade entrances congregate everyone helping to blast the mountains to smithereens, weary-looking townsmen called into service in these urgent times. But surely this is not the way to go about addressing the imminent apocalypse?

Wary eyes meet theirs, and they dismount, Lu Ten striding forward purposefully while Hanxin hangs back with Eely, scanning their surroundings for whoever's in charge. At the mouth of the largest cave stands a man wearing the tall, bridged cap of a county-level magistrate, his back towards them, poring over schematics with a couple others.

"Excuse me," Lu Ten calls as he approaches. The man turns, and his face is unforgettably familiar to them both.

"Song Yu?"

"That's _Magistrate_ Song to you," Song Yu snipes at him, sarcastic as ever. Only then does he actually register Lu Ten and Hanxin, six years after meeting under different circumstances.

_A young man standing hesitantly before a company of Fire Nation soldiers living on the rough in an abandoned temple. An orchard of plum trees, Lu Ten's faith in humanity withering away like the fruit spoiled from the summer's heat. _

_"I volunteered so that no one else would have to," Song Yu says, but he implies—you've just rendered my services worthless. _

"Magistrate Song, what is going on here? Why are your men excavating all these caves?"

Everyone has ceased their work to gawk at the confrontation, the spectators drawing close, and Hanxin edges next to Lu Ten, wondering if this is one they might have to fight their way out of.

"Last I checked, the Azure Dragon had no command over _my_ town, and its people," Song Yu says, belligerent with young, insecure authority. He must have risen to the county seat recently. "This is the best way to protect ourselves against the Fire Nation's plans for invasion. It's what my father would have wanted."

_His father… _It makes sense then, the self-sacrificing vein that runs through Shouxiang's governing family. The late Magistrate Song would not have suffered anyone but his own son to serve as a tribute for their town. His son in turn would not suffer all their townsmen to risk their lives, but that is exactly what Lu Ten and Hanxin are here to convince them to do.

"We have the expertise to build bunkers deep in these mountains, deep enough that they won't find us here," Song Yu says with the confidence of youth and ignorance. _They _will_ find you, and there will be no sacrifice you can make to save your people then._

"You say that, but can you stay underground indefinitely? At some point, you will have to come to the surface, and the Fire Nation will be waiting for you," Lu Ten reasons patiently. "Will you not fight instead to prevent that day from coming?"

"Hmph." Song Yu scoffs, still so invested in dramatic gestures, believing himself to be the tragic hero of some great theater classic. "It's ironic coming from you, Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten of the _Fire Nation, _telling me to go fight and kill your own kinsmen? Am I missing something here?"

Lu Ten gives the appearance of saintly patience, but Hanxin glimpses the minute twitches in his arms crossed over his chest, as if he's _this _close to throwing up his hands and walking away from this bullheaded young magistrate. He tilts his head in a sardonic, silent challenge, and Song Yu seems to take the message.

"We'd heard rumors that you were alive, and in league with those fighting against the Fire Nation. I didn't think those rumors held any water," he admits. "But that doesn't mean we'll fight with you. We're fine as we are, thank you very much."

He turns back to the contingent of men he'd been addressing prior to Lu Ten and Hanxin's arrival. "Back to work, everyone; we've got deadlines to meet. No one rests until we all have a place to rest."

_Underground, whether in a deceptively safe bunker or in a grave, _Hanxin thinks, macabre visions souring their goals for the day. It looks like they won't be able to rely on Shouxiang's numbers to boost the White Lotus's ranks.

A rumbling sound deep within the mountains, and Lu Ten looks back at him, unnerved. They haven't even resumed blasting yet, so what's all this commotion?

Hanxin realizes what's about to happen a split second before all goes to hell and he gets bowled over by a heavy, comforting weight.

* * *

**LU TEN**

"Take cover!" Song Yu roars, the howl escaping his throat so raw and infernal compared to his earlier attempts at suave bravado. There is a time and place for such brutality, and now is definitely it as pieces of boulders and entire ledges start to collapse, crashing towards the ground and threatening to brain everyone into oblivion.

Men cower under overhangs, wincing and coughing as rubble and falling stones kick up massive dust clouds. Lu Ten presses Hanxin close to a secluded alcove, reactions faster than anyone around them, thinking solely to protect his beloved. He puzzles it over: these blasted holes are still quite superficial, nowhere close to destabilizing the entire mountainside. Why then this devastating landslide?

He has his answer soon enough as everyone starts to emerge from cover, only to pause in horrified silence to witness the bones of the earth parting and a _giant badger mole _clawing its way out of a cave.

…_yeah, we have bigger problems than Song Yu's uncooperativeness now. _

The badger moles (oh gods, there's two of them) amble out of their disturbed habitat, supremely displeased at the villagers' intrusion. Their blind, hazy eyes stare blankly ahead, exposed to daylight for perhaps the first time ever, noses sniffing the fresh mountain air in disorientation. People run screaming as the disgruntled beasts swipe at them, sending debris and more than one unlucky bystander flying left and right in a frenzy. _This is not good; they're coming this way and all I've got is a pair of swords that are just barely longer than those claws… _

Unheralded, a lone plucked string peals behind him, and in his rush to draw swords against a couple of creatures three times his height, he'd neglected to notice that Hanxin has resorted to his own defense: his _erhu, _a stand-in for his voice.

Everyone pauses, the badger moles intently listening to the vibrations of that fading tone, the humans merely relieved that they've paused in their rampage. It seems that they love music, or at least, Hanxin's playing.

His song is stirring, laden with sobriety and soulfulness. The opening is riddled with pauses and cut-off phrases, like the inklings of a new idea that has only just sprung to mind. It stretches and grows, that sibilant hesitance morphing into a more resonant melody, confident and bracing in its forthrightness. All around them, everyone listens, spellbound, and Lu Ten likewise remains enthralled by his music. _This is how I fell._

The badger moles shuffle closer, sniffing inquisitively, laying their foreheads on their paws as they listen. Something about their sincere curiosity inspires Hanxin, and before Lu Ten can put out a hand to caution him, he approaches the nearest one. For a moment, he breaks the continuity of his song to clamber _onto the badger mole's back like it's an eel-hound are you out of your mind? _

He starts forward, too apprehensive to hold back, but Hanxin smiles and shakes his head, confident in his control of the situation. The badger mole arches its back, mildly puzzled at what the human's doing up top and why there's no more music. Gradually, Hanxin squirms onto the juncture of its neck and head, sitting there comfortably and resuming his playing.

Everyone gapes in awe, and Lu Ten spots Song Yu getting to his feet amid a cloud of dust. He looks decidedly worse for the wear and not in much of a position to counter any arguments from someone who just saved all their lives from angry badger moles.

"Still thinking about moving into the tunnels and waiting out the rest of the war underground? Badger moles make lovely roommates, as we've just seen." Lu Ten does feel a little guilty, rubbing salt in his wounds, but they need all the help they can get, and if he can guilt the young magistrate into pledging his services, so much the better.

"Oh, haha. Yes, you win," he concedes. "Don't know why I bothered trying."

"Excellent! Shouxiang will no longer accept defeat and surrender. I'd say this calls for inaugurating a new town name—might I suggest New Hanxin in honor of your swashbuckling savior?"

Lu Ten doesn't wait for an answer, clambering his way up to sit behind Hanxin on his furry steed, their roles reversed. Somehow the badger mole intuits what to do and lumbers into action, guided by a lovely melody, as its companion trails behind. With smooth strokes of their grievously sharp claws, they clear a pathway between the fallen stones blocking the exit. They emerge into the clear air, everyone following, still quite stricken at this miraculous twist of events.

He wraps his arms around Hanxin's waist, mindful of where the _erhu _rests in his lap, and squeezes tightly, burying his face at the nape of his neck with abandon. Hanxin sucks in a surprised breath at this sudden affection, but Lu Ten does not care who sees them thus.

"Help me, Hanxin. I've fallen in love with you again, and I can't get up."

Hanxin's shoulders shake with silent, uproarious laughter, the movement jostling Lu Ten until he finally disentangles them. As they ride off back towards town, he wonders how it's possible, even for a moment, to forget how constantly smitten he is with this man.

_"Falling" in love though—such a negative and inaccurate connotation,_ he ponders. _Say rather that we rise together, ascending, exalted in our love for each other. _

"Always ascending on the path to love," he murmurs without context in Hanxin's ear; his love shivers a little at the ticklish feeling on his skin. "Mm, that's more like it."

* * *

**A/N**: The writing notes for this chapter are here at: archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/56178292. A highly recommended read this time around; they discuss pacing of this chapter, the many poems, interesting customs and cultural exchange, and more.


	13. ZUKO: The White Lotus's Aces

**A/N: **Dear readers, please take note! Warnings in this chapter for **graphic depictions of violence; blood; suicide (original, minor character)**. If you have any concerns prior to reading, feel free to contact me at the-cloud-whisperer on Tumblr; I'll be happy to answer questions.

This was more of an experimental chapter for me, testing the limits of how dark Zuko could get, though with moments of brightness in there as well. Not to mention a little bit of technical experimentation in the final section. It might read a little rough as a result… let me know what you think! :)

* * *

_24 May - 15 June._** ZUKO**

The first time Aang does it, Zuko nearly falls out of the sky, his glider unmanned. It's one thing to know the airbender can spirit project himself, it's quite another thing to see him pop up casually, floating in midair.

"What are you doing?" he blurts out when he recovers himself.

"What, am I not allowed to check up on you?"

"I'm alive," he says shortly, glaring straight ahead. "Where are you?"

"On Appa's back, heading towards the White Lotus camp near Ba Sing Se." Aang keeps pace with him effortlessly, one of the convenient things about not having a body. "They'll be wondering where we've gotten off to. Sozin's comet is in less than a month."

Zuko shrugs, a harder feat than it sounds given that he needs to keep his torso straight to maintain his glider's path. "Tell them I'll do what they need me to do: knock out the Fire Lord and his fleet of airships on the day of. What else do they want?"

He doesn't mean to sound so tetchy—actually, he does. After all, he's just found out that his own father ordered Lu Ten to be killed so he could seize the throne. At the same time, he registers that Aang's trying to give him space, physically flying to rejoin the others and astrally accompanying him instead of the other way around. If his company is unwanted, he can just disappear, and Zuko appreciates that thoughtfulness.

He pulls away from his cold, blue rage for long enough to internalize Aang's vulnerable expression. "I wouldn't mind if you were with me on the day of the comet," he allows. "We could take out the airships together." That Zuko must face his father alone remains unspoken. "But I'd rather you didn't stick around for the interim."

"What are you planning, Zuko?" Aang's ethereal arrow bunches up on his forehead as he frowns in concern. "Can't I help?"

He shakes his head, again mildly disrupting his control over his glider. The vast blue sea fathoms below contains the remains of countless marooned sea-goers over the centuries. He will not join them today.

"I'd rather you didn't see me like this." He can see the lights of Chihkan Tower, one of many Fire Navy outposts along the coast, on the horizon. "I'm sure the White Lotus will thank me for eliminating some of the Fire Nation reserve ahead of time. I'll start down south near Omashu and work my way north."

Aang follows his train of thought, mentally mapping the paths they'd traced early in their travels. "You're going back to Pohuai?"

"To pay Colonel Shinu, Lu Ten's ex-commanding officer, a visit. It's only polite to let him know I'm coming."

"Do you want to kill him?" Aang asks baldly. "I'm not trying to stop you. I'm trying to understand."

"There are worse things than death." Zuko dips one wing of the glider lower, descending to ride a smooth current and let his arms rest a bit. "What is there to understand? I want him to pay for what he did, just like I want my father to pay."

"Payment indicates equivalent exchange. Is there anything Shinu can offer… or suffer, that will make up for what he did to Lu Ten?"

Pros of being engaged to a master airbender and philosopher: he always knows the right questions to ask.

Cons of being engaged to a master airbender and philosopher: he always knows the right questions to ask, damn you.

Zuko cannot answer that with a just conscience. Of course there is nothing Shinu can do to make up for years of Lu Ten's life stolen from him. That time, and the memories he could have made and enjoyed during that time, can never be ransomed back.

"That doesn't mean I won't make him pay back as much as he can," he says viciously. "Equivalent or not, I'll take what I can get."

"All right," Aang says. "Like I said, I won't stop you."

He dissipates with a longing hand curled along the side of Zuko's face. He cannot feel it, but he misses it when it's gone. Even after Aang said he won't interfere with his plans, Zuko oddly still wants his approval. This path of being the Avatar… it's so lonely and uncertain. He never knows right from wrong.

_It's not about being the Avatar, though, is it?_ He ponders. _It's about being me, Zuko, one individual who was wronged, not a heavenly representative of the world's hurts at large. I'm just me._

There is no time to dwell on should's and should not's. He has work to do.

ZZZ

They don't expect him at first. It is easy to storm Chihkan Tower at midnight, a shawl of seawater draped over his arms, disarming struggling soldiers with a few well-placed tendrils, spitting fire at anyone who tries to sneak up on him like an irritated dragon reclaiming its hoard. He wants them to know they are facing the Avatar.

Down go their radio communications; their battle logs he incinerates with a gleeful snap. No ships are docked in the bay tonight, but he locates their small fleet of escape motorboats and sinks those for good measure, all the while carelessly fending off uncoordinated attacks from the scant personnel stationed at this outpost.

The more chaos he sows, the better. He leaves Chihkan behind with a signature on the wall beside the front gate: the word for 'azure' splashed in jet-black ink.

The cry of a bird of prey crowns the silence around him. A messenger hawk flies away from the tower, carrying hastily scrawled news of the attack, the only mode of communication remaining to them.

He lets it go. He had the advantage of surprise here, but no more. It's fairer this way. He still doesn't have the Avatar state in his arsenal. Azula's lightning seems to have fundamentally fucked up his chakras such that he cannot access it, but that is immaterial. He has the strength of vengeance, the swiftness of retribution on his side now. No one can resist his just cause.

ZZZ

Outposts fall, and light towers crumble into the sea. He targets a few harbors that serve as the Fire Navy's main home base system on the west coast. These ships would have deployed along with their artillery men and reserve soldiers to Ba Sing Se within the coming weeks. He avoids targeting those frigates and battleships that roam high on the southwestern seas. If he were dealt a life-threatening blow on the open seas, he can't depend on his water- and airbending to carry him to safety so far out.

He remembers a few of the major supply routes and granaries utilized by the Fire Nation armies. It seems so long ago that he'd reviewed maps with Master Piandao and Sokka, committing these strategic locations to memory in preparation for the end. Barns burn in the night, their stock depleted, any chance of healthy, hale soldiers marching to war on the day of the comet now nil.

At every stronghold he knocks out, he leaves his signature scorched over the gates, or painted on a window, or slashed onto a wooden bridge. 'Azure,' his cousin's designation. It should be clue enough for the man who brought Lu Ten down.

The personnel at White Cliff Fortress on the midwestern coast constitute a completely nonbending unit, rare but well-trained. He works his ways through the levels, earning himself a sword on the way. Dual swords are his preference, but one will do in a pinch. Despite their proficiency, he manages to eliminate almost everyone in short order save for two, the captain and his second-in-command.

He fights both at once, fast-paced, relentless, fire in his blood—this is why he learned the way of the sword. The exhilaration of blade on blade goes to his head, causing him to loosen all restraints and throw himself entirely into the exchange of deadly blows. Steel batters steel, the sound brilliant and intoxicating.

It is like bellsong, he rhapsodizes, the _cling_ and _clang_ of refined steel, but even metal must yield eventually. He notices a deep nick in the lieutenant's overused sword, one that enlarges as Zuko strikes the same place over again. The man favors the same forms and strategies repeatedly, and that will be his downfall.

He focuses his attack on the lieutenant, fending off his captain as they dance around each other. He will need to be at arm's length if this is to work. An uncensored leap, a final decisive blow, and the man's blade breaks under Zuko's assault. The free tip continues with the momentum of his swing, flying through the air to bury itself in his captain's chest.

"No!" He flings himself across the floor to cradle his captain in his arms, hands shaking, tentatively curling around the end of the blade as if to pull it out. _He'll bleed out either way_.

Two pairs of hands clutch the broken sword tip, blood intermingling, uncaring of cold metal's sting, seeking only the warmth of enjoinment in those final moments. Baited seconds pass, almost a minute in awful silence, and then one pair goes limp.

An eternity without sound, it seems, as the captain dies, broken by a cry of pain so raw and infernal, it stuns Zuko to the core. The lieutenant's grief is replete with horror at how that greatest of fears has come to pass: the loss of a loved one. The way his hands shudder as they are bathed in blood, as if frantically trying to dam a waterfall. The mask-like agony of his expression, naked, unflinchingly wounded through and through. The captain has passed on to his reward. The true torment falls to those who continue living in a significant absence.

Zuko decides to leave the lieutenant; he's in no condition to fight back. He lays down his sword and turns to leave.

"I'm sorry," the lieutenant chokes out. Zuko whirls in shock just in time to catch a burst of arterial spray as the man takes up his riven sword and draws it across his bared neck. He collapses, head bobbing grotesquely with the last few pulses of his faithful heart. Then he lies still, eyes open in death's final, damning gaze.

Zuko shudders, the taste of blood in his mouth not his own. _Fuck._

He stumbles down the stairs in a daze and bumps, drunk on grief, into the wall just inside the entrance. Numbly, he presses a hand to the cold, grounding stone. It comes away with the word 'azure,' carved in relief, unsteady strokes reflective of his shaken state and unstable bending. He collects his glider and drags his feet down the quay, stepping off the edge into the water, no more sentient than a sack of stones.

* * *

**AANG**

Aang finds him floating limply in the sea, drifting away from shore, glider strapped to his belt. He greets Aang with a hollow voice, sounding like he's in shock, plus the water's cold—not a good combination.

"What's got you thinking so hard out here?" he asks softly, lying down next to Zuko on the water.

"We used to watch clouds like this together, remember?" That was a very different, happier era. "And I used to watch the stars with Lu Ten on nights like this, too."

He points up at the sky, to the east, his waterbending holding him taut on the mild tide. "The Azure Dragon, look."

Aang looks, having forgotten that it is indeed a constellation of the heavens. A winding trail of seven stars, imagined by the ancients to be the heavenly guardian of the east.

"He's been watching over me all this time," Zuko says pensively, letting his arm drop to the side with a splash. "I indirectly killed two men today. Directly killed a bunch of others, but that's beside the point. I used one man's weapon against himself, effectively made him kill his captain and himself. An elegant affair all around."

Aang holds his breath, not to make himself more buoyant—that is unnecessary in his spirit projection form—but because he is afraid even the slightest sound will disturb the delicate balance of Zuko's psyche right now.

"Do you think Azula felt the same way?"

He's startled out of his silence. "What?"

"When she shot me with lightning," Zuko clarifies. "She can't have lost her mind for a second and thought it would be good fun to kill me. I like to think that I mattered to her. She must have cared about me, to wander the whole world looking for me, right?"

"Mm." Privately, Aang admits that he's not exactly the most unbiased judge to consult regarding Azula.

"She was compelled to kill me, by ghosts of the past, fears of the present," Zuko muses. "I wonder where she is now. I wonder if she needs my help."

He heaves a deep sigh. "Look at that. So many people who love and cherish me, and all I've done is snipe Navy strongholds and quibble about killing my father."

"Killing him won't reverse the world's hurts. We've been over this." Aang stares up at the sky, curls his fingers in front of one eye to make a little telescope. It helps him focus on the fainter stars of the Azure Dragon, though it does nothing to make them clearer or brighter.

"No, but it'll make me feel better."

"Then do it," Aang says fiercely. He sits up, needing Zuko to focus on him and not the formless heavens. "Do it for yourself. Do it to make yourself feel better—I'm not going to question that. You know your own heart best. But know also that this is only the beginning."

Zuko casts an arm out to the side and waterbends a broad square of ice, hauling himself up top and sitting cross-legged in its center. It's a small gesture of composure, of willingness to listen, but Aang knows how much it costs him in these shaken moments so soon after he's been questioning all his life goals and hopes.

"You kill Fire Lord Ozai—okay. You've killed one man. But you haven't killed the century of genocide and colonialism and mass famines and every other plague that he saw fit to spread around the world. You cannot kill the trauma of multiple generations."

Zuko leans his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands and exhaling a leaden sigh. But he does not tell Aang to stop.

"If there is a world to live in after the comet, there will be more work to do. The Fire Nation needs your guidance in relearning trust in its monarch. The Earth Kingdom needs your magnanimity and compassion in rebuilding itself. The Water Tribes must be reunited and rehomed. You'll need your strength, just like I'll need mine to maintain the legacy of what's left of the Air Nomads. It doesn't stop after you kill the Fire Lord.

"I know this isn't exactly helping to not stress you out." A choked-off snort, tears clogging Zuko's throat. That's good; at least he has the energy to respond. "But the fact that you'll have so much more work waiting for you is a privilege. It means that we have hope that the calamity that awaits us… will pass. And everyone you love will be there, helping you. So you must be there as well.

"You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it."

Zuko shivers at his words, or maybe from the cold, and Aang's heart breaks a little, watching him so forlorn. He considers himself in his ethereal spirit projection form, little more than a wisp of energy molded into a visible form. _If I've essentially just bent my own spirit energy, who's to say I can't… take things a little further? _

He reaches out a translucent, ghostly hand and touches the crown of that beloved bowed head, willing the energy to leach off of his image into Zuko's chakra. A faint glow, and he feels a little diminished, but Zuko looks up in amazement.

"You've never done that before." Already, he sounds sprier, less drained from the day's events.

"Gotta learn new tricks all the time, else why would you keep me around?"

"I love you," Zuko rushes to say. "I'm sorry, Aang, I—"

"Shhh." Aang cuts him off, hovering as close as the aura of his spirit form will allow. "You're tired, and it's a long way to Pohuai. Surely you're not going to fly all the way there? Plus you're soaking wet."

He groans, long and weary. "Don't know how else to get there. Can't magic my spirit out of my body and go zooming places like you do."

"Well, on my way here, I happened across a ship coming this way, headed north. They can't be far off now. You should be able to bend yourself aboard and hitchhike a ride in the hold. I can even pretend to be a ghost and distract the crew while you hide away."

Zuko laughs, a shadow of his usual unrestrained laughter. Guru, this is the hardest Aang has ever had to work for it, but it's worth it, to hear his lover's golden voice parted around the strains of gentle mirth and lightheartedness. It's a balm for the war and wounds, and he cherishes it like his own heart.

* * *

**ZUKO**

There is a map on the wall of Shinu's private quarters, and as Zuko looks more closely, he notices that it is not centered on the western Earth Kingdom, as might be expected of Pohuai's commander. Rather, it displays the vast northern expanse of the realm, including the northwest territory, Ba Sing Se, and the surrounding area, with multiple crosses of different colors marked. He squints at the annotations scrawled on the map with dawning recognition.

_Maple River. Argent River. Iron Hills. Lake Laogai. Jingxing. _

These are familiar places, and Zuko realizes that they mark battles fought, not by Shinu himself, but by Lu Ten during the war. A wry smile stretches his lips past breaking point, cracked and dry, and in the long mirror beside the door, a scarecrow-like sneer stares back at him.

At least someone besides himself remembers Lu Ten as he was, even if it is someone directly responsible for his cousin's death.

The door slides open, and Colonel Shinu pauses in the doorway. It is a testament to his nerves that he does not flinch at Zuko's presence or display any surprise at all.

"Avatar," he says shortly.

Shinu is short and stout, all powerful shoulders and a modest gut that promises a grand breath of fire, if he saw enough action on the battlefield to put it to use these days, that is. A little reminiscent of Uncle Iroh, Zuko reflects, but less… uncle-shaped? He shuts down this meandering line of thought in favor of focusing on his mission here.

"You were expecting me."

"You slashed and burned a blazing path up the coast in the name of your dead cousin," Shinu says, not one to dilly-dally with words. "As if I had anything to do with that, yet here you are."

"Only someone who had a hand in his death would even make such a tenuous connection," Zuko says darkly.

"What do you want?" Shinu steps inside the room fully and closes the door behind him.

"I should ask you that," Zuko murmurs. He picks up a sheet of paper from Shinu's desk, the colonel having started a letter before leaving to attend to other matters. "A missive to General Bujing, promising your attendance in a week's time at the outer wall with the full complement of one hundred Yuyan archers. 'A skilled, deadly contingent whose sharpshooting abilities will turn the tides of the battle.' I think you flatter yourself too much, don't you?"

"What is your point?" Shinu is either very confident that Zuko won't lift a hand against him in his own fortress, or very nihilistic and uncaring about his imminent destruction. Zuko can't say that either trait commends the man to him.

"What you want is to remain _relevant. _My cousin threatened that wish."

A tightening of the jaw, almost imperceptible, eyes darkening with resentment, and Zuko knows he is right.

"You were poised for promotion to general when Lu Ten arrived, brilliant and outstanding, threatening your status," he dissects. "General Iroh and Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten, you hated them both."

"You jumped at the chance to eliminate the son to get to the father." With a decisive flick of his fingers, the map on Shinu's wall goes up in flames, Lu Ten's conquests forever erased. "But when Fire Lord Ozai's plan succeeded, you lost your nerve, unable to cope with the expectations of a top-ranking general. You requested to be placed at Pohuai Fortress and spent the next five years filing your nails on the best stealth assassins in the colonies: the Yuyan archers."

He stalks closer to Shinu, who actually looks a little pale and unnerved now.

"I had a word with them before I got here, you know. Just a little 'get-to-know-you' chat."

He smiles, his best imitation of a scarecrow that's seen too many days under the scalding summer sun.

ZZZ

_The Yuyan archers pursue him as far as Taku, the abandoned city on a hill. He dashes through familiar territory, bending a wall of earth to cover his back from a concerted volley of arrows. There are maybe ten or twelve in the group chasing him, but they are skilled and coordinated, scaling the huge forest with the help of sturdy ropes deployed by their arrows. They fly through the branches like airbenders as Zuko glides along, twisting sharply to evade them. He soars over the river, blocking more arrows with a solid sheet of ice yanked up in a hurry; it withstands a few arrows before shattering. _

_They catch up to him in the courtyard of the old herbalist's house—she's gone now to join her comrades at Ba Sing Se. The open space at the top of the mountain gives him room to deflect their attacks, but sooner or later, one or more arrows will find their target. He needs to get in closer. _

_"Hey guys? I just want to talk."_

_Normally this wouldn't be very effective, but it helps that he's managed to grab a knife dropped by one of them and is now cheerfully using it to menace an unlucky victim. The man he's currently got in a chokehold, backed up against the far wall of the courtyard, looks to be not much older than Zuko, one of the greener members of the contingent, perhaps. _

_This gets everyone's attention. _

_"Wasn't that like, the most fun you've all had in a while? Be honest with me."_

ZZZ

According to the Yuyan archers, they've been on perhaps ten missions in the past six months. Once to capture a stray airbender wandering around these parts; once to capture the Avatar who came looking for him. After his miraculous escape, various smaller groups were deployed a few times to search for Zuko in the area but came back empty-handed. When news got out that Azula had rebelled and was now somewhere at large in the Earth Kingdom, more units were sent out, but in the absence of any measurable success, Shinu had elected to keep them close at hand instead of expanding their search.

"Did you know, the red-winged swift, the namesake of your beloved archers, spends almost all its time in the air?" Zuko asks conversationally. "Whether sleeping, hunting, eating, or drinking, they stay in flight from the day they leave the nest to the day they die. They are creatures of the air, not content to ever stop flying."

ZZZ

_"It's easy to kill or maim with bow and arrow." _

_They've managed to form a quasi-civilized circle in the middle of the courtyard to chat, half of them sitting on the ground with Zuko, the other half standing guard at the periphery. He keeps a loose arm slung around his young friend's neck, knife at the ready. _

_"It's hard to capture a target alive and keep them that way. That's where both the enjoyment and the professionalism of our art lies," says Hou Yi, the apparent leader of this group, or at least the most senior among them. "Our skills of stealth, stalking, patient surveillance and finesse are what distinguish us among all the regiments of the Fire Nation army. Espionage, tracking, covert captures and recon—that's the thrill of the game. Anything but frank combat, when it comes down to it." _

_"Sounds like you've all been absolutely wasted," Zuko remarks. "I have a better idea, a very fun game, I promise. Would you like to hear it?"_

ZZZ

"You've grounded the swift. You've doomed the Yuyan archers to pace endlessly before the walls of Pohuai, never being released to pursue their passion. Do you think they will follow you to the war?" Zuko flaps the letter in Shinu's face, the rustle of paper loud in the commanding silence that follows.

Shinu swallows his tongue, unsure of his own answer. "They must," he says without conviction.

"They don't need to. They don't need _you. _Come and see."

Shinu's quarters open onto the second level of a high atrium, banisters of stone barring a twenty-foot drop onto the floor below. Normally, the foyer is lit with hearth fires, torches, and candles, no windows blessing this gloomy place, but today all is dark.

"What is the meaning of this?" Shinu ignites a palmful of flame, but its quivering light only serves to illuminate a narrow penumbra around him.

There is a grand chandelier in the middle of the hall, a thick chain suspending it from the lofty ceiling. Zuko makes the thirty-foot flight blindly, simultaneously breathing the candles into brightness and reigning in his glider to leap onto the sturdy frame of the candelabra. He nestles among its brass skeleton like a spider surveying the juicy fly that is Shinu.

The fly startles, trembling in its place as the light of the chandelier reveals dozens of archers lining the foyer, bows at the ready, arrows pointed straight at their prey.

"Guards?" he yelps. "Somebody?! Arrest these fiends!"

"Now, now," Zuko soothes. "Fiends? That's rather rude. Up until now, these archers were your ticket to staying in the army's big leagues. That's all over now. Your regular infantrymen are dead or incapacitated—how do you think I got in here unnoticed?"

The fire in Shinu's hands winks out, defeated. "What do you have in mind for me, then?" he asks. "Make it quick."

_The temerity, _Zuko seethes. _Lu Ten's death was not quick, even if he didn't ultimately die. _

"It's a very fun game," he promises. "I came up with it myself. You have three days before your men must begin their march to Ba Sing Se to make it on time for the comet. That is, if you survive those three days. Red-winged swifts don't usually hunt in packs, but these ones haven't fed in so long. They're positively ravenous for any scraps they can get."

Understanding starts to dawn on Shinu's face. Zuko wishes he could see the man's eyes from this distance. Terror starts in the eyes, the quaking of the globes in their orbits, that involuntary widening until you can see whites above and below the irises. Singularly beautiful.

"You do have a second option," he muses. "Let the Yuyan archers go now of your own accord, with an official decree to document your resignation. Even if the Fire Nation wins, you will never again grace the annals of history with your victorious name."

_And that is a fate worse than death, _Shinu decides.

"No?" Zuko surmises at the colonel's defiantly raised chin, fists balled at his sides, no intention of dismissing the archers. Arrogant, but at least he maintains integrity to the very end. "Alright then. My friends," he addresses the Yuyan archers. "I think you might be persuaded to give Colonel Shinu here thirty minutes' head start? It won't be much fun otherwise."

They lower their bows, but not their stances. Zuko leaps down from the chandelier, a winsome air cushion breaking his fall, and exits stage left, not waiting to see Shinu's meltdown.

The most dangerous game commences.

ZZZ

That night, he dreams of a scaly scorpion monster that slithers in interminable coils around him, misted in darkness.

"The end of the world is coming, Avatar," Koh croons, blurry visages rotating on the tail end of his monstrous body. Zuko can't focus on the rapid interchange, and he swallows nauseously as he tries not to imagine faces he might see there.

"Remember what I told you about interfering with the spirits." Koh shows him the face of the Blue Spirit mask that he wore to break into Pohuai the first time. "I shan't be scrupulous about claiming an extra face if you happen to… _slip up."_

He is not conscious of speaking, yet his response is formed. "Why not just take mine?"

"I am tempted," the spirit concedes. "But it's more fun this way, no? To be able to exert such devastating control over the Avatar himself; to be able to wreak such grief if you fail. It's _interesting."_

The impenetrable dark fog that embodies the spirit thickens, obscuring his view of everything. Wind rushes past his ears like he's in a hellish tornado, deranged shrieks and gusts. All at once, the mist condenses into a gyrating vortex, fell and feral, that resolves into a familiar face—

He wakes, breathing hard, struggling to hold that image in his head. The stars twinkle coldly, as unreadable as the depths of his own subconscious. Whatever he dreamed, he hopes it is not some portent for future doom. _I've got more than enough doom and destruction going on in the present._

* * *

_16 June. _**Journal entry #? - White Lotus camp, Ba Sing Se. Written by Sokka with input from Toph and editing by Katara.**

Under the greening auspices of summer's approach, the White Lotus blooms, roots firm in the humble origins of the Earth Kingdom's people. It blossoms bright and clear, the herald of a hopeful summer, if it does not end before it begins.

The main camp is like a city in itself, orderly aisles like streets paved with people of all walks of life. Earthbenders from Gaoling, from Meikuang, from every nook and cranny of the realm, gathered up by Toph, Sokka, and Katara during their extensive travels.

The people of Gusu, transplants to the Northern Air Temple, have followed the Mechanist here to aid in devising systems and implements for defending the great city. Aang helps them get settled, working together to optimize the settlement as a living space—latrine placement relative to training grounds and the mess hall is _crucial_, apparently.

At satellite camps to the east of the outer wall, the ships of the Southern Water Tribe moor on the inlets, led by Chief Hakoda, bolstered by the remnants of the north, exiles coaxed out of hiding by the urgency of the comet's arrival. With their help, Katara begins the push to centralize a medical contingent with input from Water Tribe healers as well as Earth Kingdom practitioners trained in a variety of skills like herbalism, acupuncture, and chiropractic. Soon enough, there is a steady stream of soldiers frequenting the healing tent after training accidents, always sent off in better shape than they arrived.

Soldiers need to eat, and as their numbers swell, their food supplies become untenable. Dissent foments within the camp as men wonder whether their next meal can even qualify as such in terms of substantiality. Various Grand Lotus meetings are held to ponder a solution, but ultimately, direct action prevails. The food situation gets rectified in short order by one Jet, former Freedom Fighter; one Guo Bang of Yu Dao; one cuddly grey cat named Miao; and one Toph Beifong, greatest earthbender of all time.

Word on the street is that Jet and his cronies (_Toph: hey! I'm not a crony! Sokka: no, you were the brawn of the operation, as well as a human lie detector_) smuggled themselves into Ba Sing Se and attracted the attention of the head of the Dai Li. Through occult means, they successfully convinced her to open the outer wall and permit access to the agrarian zone of Ba Sing Se, which can feed a hundred armies easily, allowing strict rationing standards to be relaxed. The boost in morale is soberingly rapid, and Jet more than earns his resulting accolades. (_Toph: excuse me, I helped! Sokka: you were just there as insurance against the Dai Li's earthbenders. Toph: just? Just? *storms out, kicking over Sokka's inkwell and narrowly missing obliterating this entire journal entry*)_

In other news, Sokka and Master Piandao help to triage reinforcements trickling in, gauging their abilities and cohesiveness, deciding where each unit fits in the grand scheme of things. There are recruits from all throughout the northwestern realms, mustered by the Azure Dragon, each unit surrendering a broken piece of blue glass as their token of enlistment. The vanguard of Yu Dao's forces swells the White Lotus' ranks by five hundred, led by Guo Bang; the remainder of three thousand follow within a week, a magnificent display of power. Shouxiang's recruits do not pale beside them; their leader riding on the back of a badger mole, guiding its lumbering steps with the sweet melody of lute strings.

Speaking of gigantic, earth-elemental creatures, Meikuang's prodigal son, Haru, arrives two weeks before the comet's dawn with the pride of the Si Wong Desert in tow. He'd rather been hoping to procure a desert lion-turtle as a greeting gift to the allies, but fantastic beasts do not cater to the whims of humans. Instead, he has successfully secured the support of one Tin-Hinan, a desert queen, commander of the scattered tribes. Six score sandbenders arrive on their trim sand-sailers, ready to join the fray.

The various earthbending units get whipped into shape expediently, and Toph keeps an eye out for promising potential metalbenders—none so far, but you never know. Everyone has a role; no talent or skill is too small to be utilized. The White Lotus is prepared for attacks on all fronts, and at the center of its many unfurled petals rest its grand masters, supported by Team Avatar.

In addition to these ranks, there is a not-insignificant contingent of Fire Nation deserters, both recent and from over the disillusioning years serving in a fruitless war. They are welcomed without question, sincerity hard to falsify in these dark times. If nothing else, some good has come of all this unparalleled strife, uniting people of all origins together for a common cause. They can only hope that it will be enough when the day comes.

SSS

"Your prose is a lot more refined these days," Katara remarks, overlooking Toph's interruptions in the text. She lays down the paper, having crossed out a few words here and there for lack of anything else to critique. "The tone is very… hm, epic? But in a weirdly detached way, like there's not really a lot of you in it."

"See, you started out nice, but then you just gave me a backhanded compliment," Sokka complains. "Should've stopped while you were ahead."

"Yes, yes, you know your own faults as well as I do." She brushes off his whining. "Care to let me know what's bothering you?"

He sighs, picking up the paper and looking at the words without really reading them. "I just want this to read more polished than I'd usually aim for, because… who knows? Maybe this paper will be all that's left of us after the comet passes."

They have known this, perhaps not from the beginning, but for quite some time now. Like all the players recognized in Sokka's quasi-epitaph, they have given everything of themselves on a journey that they somehow stumbled into unawares, and they are not sure they will prevail. Only time will tell.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading! If so inclined, please leave a comment? How do you feel about Zuko going rogue? Predictions for the grand finale? Hit me with them!

The next chapter deals with Lu Ten and Hanxin arriving at the White Lotus camp, meeting with Iroh, various other stuff in preparation for the end times.

Very long writing notes down below, discussing Jet's role in the story, Aang and Zuko's dynamic, my version of the Yuyan archers, Zuko's motivations, and some discarded excerpts of Jet's story.

archive of our own dot org/works/7019827/chapters/57311011


	14. LU TEN: Eve of the Battle

**A/N: **Guess what! It's the anniversary of Avatar Zuko (first posted 5/30/2016). In honor of four years, here is the chapter before the final arc of this series. More details about what's to come in the end notes.

Everyone please look at these beautiful fanarts done by tinyglassearl! Hanxin and Lu Ten are so beautiful - thank you so much my friend!

tinyglassearl dot tumblr dot com /post/616841434755203072/lu-ten-and-han-xin-with-the-flute-from

* * *

_16 June. _**HANXIN**

The night before they're due to reach White Lotus headquarters, they camp in the shadow of a hulking plateau, its uneven slopes guarding the secluded valley where the masters have set up operations. It is soberingly similar to the nights they spent together under the stars, never more than a stone's throw away from battle and mortal peril. Their fate has found them yet again.

Hanxin gives the strings of his instrument a perfunctory tune, then hesitates. These spells have been striking him more often of late: being unsure of what to play. A hopeful melody, to raise spirits and boost morale? Or would that be flippantly inappropriate given these dark times? He settles for an old favorite, the Ballad of the Azure Dragon, the _erhu _vocalizing the words he can no longer voice.

_Dragon, Azure Dragon, brighten your eyes_

_Forevermore, brighten your eyes_

The Azure Dragon blinks sleepy eyes at him across the fire. They've ridden long and far today, but Hanxin doesn't want to sleep yet. Sleep means giving up the precious time they have alone before reaching the encampment tomorrow, where they will once again be swallowed up by the endless maw of people and duties that require them to put the Azure Dragon first.

He discards the old ballad in favor of newer strains, a plaintive, undulating melody. Lu Ten stretches, arms overhead, yawning benignly until he reaches a tipping point and winces. Hanxin has seen him do that a number of times, the pain from wounds inflicted by the Dai Li.

Lu Ten notices his disconcerted look and shrugs. "It's fine. I'm fine, really."

He glares at Lu Ten's dual swords where they rest in their scabbard against a log. Even moderate exertion with his usual forms, both swords and firebending, has elicited unexpected pain—how is he to fight in this condition?

"Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to sleep now." A clever excuse to evade any more opportunities to be scolded. He promptly crawls onto his bedroll and flops down on his stomach, yanking the blanket over his back.

…_all right then. _Hanxin puts away the _erhu _and joins him, for long moments kneeling by his side and looking down at his prone form. Beloved, cherished, _so _dear.

"Are you just going to sit and stare? That kind of defeats the purpose of going to sleep," Lu Ten says, the sound muffled by his arms.

He sighs and lays hands on that broad back, gently kneading all the way up to his injured shoulder.

— Remember when we first kissed? —

"Seems like just yesterday." He turns his head to the side to speak more clearly. "You gave me a massage that time too."

— It was your left shoulder. —

"Well, I've got to distribute my injuries evenly." He remains ever the paragon of rationality. "Alternate between sides so that neither shoulder feels left out."

Hanxin's lucky to have made it through the war without sustaining any truly life-threatening injuries, a combination of luck, vigilance, and his lover's protection. Lu Ten, on the other hand, collects wounds and traumas like honors, never hesitating to dive, fearless, into the most chaotic battlefield without pausing for breath.

— What are you most afraid of? — he asks, not knowing what he expects for an answer.

Lu Ten considers it for long moments, rolling his shoulders under the massage. "Putting on a new face," he concludes. "Or taking this one off. When we rejoin my father and prepare for the final battle, I once more become someone to whom people look to protect them. It's never been easy, and I don't foresee that that will have changed much."

Hanxin looks up to the sky, where the Azure Dragon rises, seven twinkling stars beaming down at them. He prays to that celestial namesake, entreating it to keep him safe. _In case I cannot. _

HHH

He jolts awake, disturbed from peaceful slumber as he tries to surmise what's going on. Beside him, Lu Ten sits up, deep breaths racking his frame, head buried in his arms.

He sweeps the periphery of their camp with a quick gaze. Nothing's amiss, and he turns back to Lu Ten, curling one arm around his shoulders. They sit in silence, this not being the first time one of them has woken from nightmares, reliving the day's horrors even during rest.

— What happened? — As he draws on Lu Ten's left bicep, goosebumps rise to his touch. It must have been a very unsettling dream.

"We were back at Ba Sing Se," Lu Ten says, squeezing his eyes shut as if to avoid seeing his waking dreams. "But it wasn't any battlefield that I recognized. It was dusk, dim and suffocating. I don't know why, but I felt terrified as I'd never been."

Hanxin closes his eyes as well, drowsing in his extra-visual senses, the gentle rumble of his lover's voice, the smoothness of skin under his fingertips, the sensation of just being together, being loved.

"I was standing with a group of people. I didn't register their faces, but we were looking out afar at a new threat materializing. A dark haze, like a gloomy fog… I can't explain it, but it felt malevolent. As if there were faces in the darkness, staring at me, judging me, cursing me…"

His voice dims, losing its brilliance to uncertainty. The stars twinkle above, serenely unaware of the world's horrors and unknowns, of these night terrors that preside over sleep's realm.

— Was I there? —

"No, I don't think so. I couldn't see you, or really anything or anyone beside me. The darkness… approached, and I saw the faces." Frustration ebbs and crests in his cadence as he struggles to describe his dream. "I don't know. But it seemed to me that a tendril of darkness _reached _for me, like it wanted to pull me into its core, to take me away to god knows where. I was paralyzed; I couldn't react. When it reached me, I screamed and woke up. I don't know what happened after that."

A wave of unease stirs his gut, and Hanxin rubs slow circles on Lu Ten's back, as much to reassure himself as to comfort his beloved. If this is a vision of sorts, then what does it spell for their future? What perils lie ahead, and more importantly, will he be able to protect his beloved from them?

_I will follow you beyond the ends of the earth. _This vow he has sworn will not be so lightly broken, and his determination grows resolute and self-assured. Let the storm come—they will weather it together, or not at all.

III

_17 June. _**IROH**

Lu Zhao pours a second cup of tea as he's reviewing the most recent battle strategies submitted by Piandao and Jeong Jeong this morning. It's just gotten light enough to douse the candles from overnight when he hears a growing babble of voices outside the tent. He reflects on this phenomenon in the back of his mind, still focused on deciphering Jeong Jeong's spidery scrawl and unorthodox tactical reasoning. He doesn't usually get too much foot traffic; as a Grand Lotus, his tent is situated well away from the training grounds and other communal areas.

"I'll go and see, sir," Lu Zhao volunteers as the tramp of voices and footsteps grows nearer, and he disappears out of the tent flap. Iroh reabsorbs himself in his reading, raising an internal eyebrow at one proposed formation… _hm, better check with Jeong Jeong about this in person; it _could _work, but only in the hands of a skilled few, and I don't know that any of our younger officers have the acumen to pull it off…_

He takes another sip and almost exhales his entire mouthful of tea over his correspondence as Lu Zhao calls out to his noisome visitors.

"Lu Ten!"

Iroh has known for over three weeks now, the news couriered from Piandao's messenger hawk a few days before the man himself arrived in camp. Despite that, knowing that his son is alive and actually seeing him in reality are so inaccessibly different that he feels he has tripped and fallen into that yawning canyon, irredeemable.

He puts his cup down, vaguely proud that only a few drops of tea slosh over the rim, his hands suddenly much stiffer than attributable to arthritis and old age.

"Up you get now, Lu Zhao, no need to be so dramatic." A hitch in Lu Ten's voice, a quick dip and a rise, suggesting he's gallantly bending down to raise the overly sincere Lu Zhao from a deep bow. Iroh can picture the scene in his mind's eye, separated from his physical gaze only by the canvas of the tent wall and the space of a dozen insurmountable strides. He would probably collapse to his knees if he tried to get up and walk outside now.

"He's waiting for you both." Shadows ripple across the tent's entrance, faint and long in the early morning sunshine. He holds his breath as the tent flap is drawn aside, no announcement given, no warning sufficient for the encounter that is about to befall him.

A quiet shadow pauses inside the entrance, then approaches, leaching into the light like a waking dream. He wonders why his vision is blurry all of a sudden—he's not yet old enough for cataracts… ah. Tears, his eyes are brimming with them. That'll do it.

He blinks them back, and his son stands before him, alive. Alive and _well._

"Father." He kneels, brushing aside a practical dark cape against the morning chill and completing his greeting with a formal bow and obeisance, as befits a son to his father after a long absence. "I said we would meet again after our victory."

Iroh finds himself unable to move, to step closer and raise him to his feet. He can only stare and lose himself in a long, starved gaze.

Lu Ten rises, and Iroh, still speechless, drinks in everything that is different about him. His right arm rides fractionally lower than the left even as they drop out of the Fire Nation salute—a shoulder injury severe enough to warrant decreased function and muscle mass. Acquired during the war or after? He is ashamed to say he does not know, having done less than his duty to care for his son's well-being during that time. He carries dual swords; do they remain his only source of self-defense? Is his firebending still defunct, ever since his disastrous encounter with the Dai Li midway through the war?

His timbre of voice is coarser than Iroh last heard it—the years have lain heavy on him, wherever he was, whatever happened to him. There are lines at the corners of his eyes and creases between his brows but at the same time, there is something inexplicably powerful and confident about him, his air and his energy. It feels almost familiar to Iroh, as if he himself has encountered such a source of power before.

"Lu Ten… it's been so long." Iroh rises unsteadily, trembling in place. Will he disappear at the lightest touch? Can an old man trust his aging eyes, turn back time and change the past so that he holds his son once more before he dies?

Lu Ten takes the steps he cannot take, approaching his desk without hesitation. "Father. This is real. I'm here, I'm alive."

Gently, as if afraid he will trigger some retaliation, he leans over the desk and embraces his father, his touch real and warm. Tears spring up again, and at his time of life, these tear glands should be all but dried up, why is he still shedding them like a colicky babe? Heavens above have mercy.

"So you are," he chokes out. The edge of his desk cuts into his belly, a small discomfort that barely registers as he leans into Lu Ten's arms, his embrace firm and unhurried. "You truly are. My son…"

They disengage at length. "So much has changed in the world since we last saw each other. You must tell me everything. We stand on the edge of battle once more, and it would break my heart to lose you again—not just you, but the you of five long years that I am not acquainted with yet."

They are as strangers, but they need not be. He hesitates before going on. "Father, I…"

Ah. "Who is your friend? I am sure we have met, but this ancient brain is withering in its vault; you must forgive me."

For it has not escaped his old eyes that someone dithers in the entrance, unsure of his welcome. Lu Ten pulls him forward, smiling slightly, and Iroh knows he has seen him before.

"Father, this is Hanxin."

Iroh nods, remembering that chance encounter with the stowaway on his ship home to the Fire Nation. "Your right-hand man during the war."

"No, Father. Hanxin is the one who has my heart." He takes Hanxin's hand in his own and turns to face him even as he continues to address Iroh. "It will belong to no one else for as long as I live."

With solemn deliberation, so that none can mistake his meaning, he lifts Hanxin's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles, lips slotting perfectly into the valleys between the ridges. He closes his eyes in reverence.

"With my father to witness, you will always have a place at my side," he vows. Hanxin looks stricken, overwhelmed by this depth of emotion, but he does not pull away.

Iroh hesitates; he cannot deny it to himself. But Lu Ten is not a child. He remembers the first time his son stepped into his war tent long ago, still new to the battlefield. Iroh had dismissed him, discarding his impassioned pleas for the welfare of a destroyed Earth Kingdom village as nothing more than the disturbed sensibilities of a young, green soldier. Even then, he was far more mature than anyone gave him credit for, and ever since, he has weathered untold trials and survived so much more than most people his age. He could have sidestepped the White Lotus and yet another war entirely, but he chose to return and accept his duty.

Lu Ten knows where his heart lies, and Iroh's own heart warms, unable to deny him what he wishes. If they survive the comet and return victorious to the Fire Nation, they will have bigger problems to worry about than the crown prince's choice of partner.

Hanxin tears his eyes away, almost shy in light of their display, and hurriedly chivvies his hands into the usual gestures and rites that stifling old geezers like Iroh and his generation have come to expect. No, that will not do. He pushes his chair back and steps out from behind his desk, stopping before Hanxin and enveloping him in a warm hug.

"I am glad for you both," he pronounces simply. "So very glad."

There is no one here to judge, so why should they stand on formality? Lu Ten stifles a smile as Hanxin very hesitantly returns the embrace. They are a blessing unto each other, and Iroh cannot say he has felt happier than this, even on the eve of a damning comet hurtling their way.

JJJ

**JET**

He's up in the hills surrounding the northern edge of camp, on lookout duty with Chey, when he sees them.

"Quick, give me your telescope!"

Chey hands over the scope, which he uses for scouting out distant targets, and Jet peers through its lens.

"It's Lu Ten!"

It's definitely him, astride the huge eel-hound Jeong Jeong lent him, riding into camp like he owns the place. At Jet's feet, Miao rolls over, tussling with her own tail, totally unheeding of whatever's got her humans so excited.

"Who's that with him?" There's a man seated behind Lu Ten, the details of his countenance too tiny to distinguish from here. Chey takes a look and stiffens in recognition.

"Blessed Lotus be, it's Hanxin! I didn't know he survived too."

"Who?"

"He was—well obviously, _is_—our Lieutenant Colonel's most faithful man-at-arms during the war." Chey nods enthusiastically, thrilled to have a story to tell. "Hanxin was part of Lu Ten's original 18th company before he was promoted and took command of multiple units. He contributed to much of Lu Ten's rapid ascent, with all his clever strategies and information-mongering. They were practically inseparable."

He squints at this new character through the telescope again. The slimy, spiny snake called _jealousy _resting at the bottom of Jet's gut stirs, uncoils, hisses with pique. What's so special about him, hm?

"Inseparable, you say? Even at bedtime?"

Chey gives him an affronted frown, and he rolls his eyes in resignation. "Sorry, I knew you'd hate for me to impugn his honor, or whatever it is that they say. Shouldn't've asked."

Chey shrugs, less outraged now. "Well, I—ghh, ng, well," he sputters awkwardly. "Well, you know how it is between men at war, but… but no! It was—they were more than that, more than just friends or lonely comrades or… you know…"

He quails at Jet's amused eyebrows, arching higher than ever now. "I suppose it's not my place to say," he mutters anticlimactically. "They were just… more."

"Very eloquent, Chey." He stands, scooping Miao up onto his shoulder. "You stay here, then; I'm going down to find out… _more."_

Lu Ten's gone to see his father first, of course, and Jet loiters outside General Iroh's tent. They're taking ages in there, though that's to be expected for such a long separation. He decides to hurry things along.

Lu Zhao had told him that Lu Ten was busy scouring the land for recruits to the White Lotus's camp, but Jet didn't know about his companion, and now he finds himself insatiably curious. What sort of a person is he?

"All right, Miao, help me out here." He edges closer to the tent. He can hear the murmur of Iroh's voice, an undercurrent of Lu Ten's, but not the third voice. "If you decide to lose your mind like a stray cat and dash in there, I'm going to have to follow you in before you cause any trouble, you understand?"

Her nose twitches—can she smell him from here? A glorious peal of laughter, bright and resonant, instantly recognizable as Lu Ten's, and that seals it for Miao. She shoots out of Jet's arms, down to the ground, and zooms through the flap in the tent like nobody else's business, straight for the person she's been missing for too long.

"Damn it, Miao," he curses, a falsification for no one to hear. Here goes then.

"Miao, you bad kitty, get back here—" He brushes the tent flap aside and gives chase on the heels of his furry troublemaker.

"Jet!" Lu Ten exclaims, even as he lifts Miao into his arms, booping her tender little nose with such affection that Jet's about to melt and die from jealousy of a cat.

"Ahem," Iroh coughs delicately. He stands in front of his desk, mildly disapproving, and okay, this was not one of Jet's better planned ideas, but to be fair, he _really wanted to see Lu Ten is that so inexcusable—_

"Father, do excuse my friend Jet here. I entrusted my cat to him, and he's taken such good care of her." He cradles Miao happily against his cheek, and by the gods, what father could resist the temptation to dote on such a perfect son? Lu Ten sets the cat on his shoulder, freeing up his hands.

"Thank you, Jet." He smiles, opening his arms in a welcoming hug. "It's wonderful to see you again."

"Errrrp," Jet manages, dodging the hug. The silence from the other corner of the tent is deafening, and he feels supremely uneasy.

"Oh, how rude of me! I wanted to introduce you to Hanxin." Lu Ten drops his arms, remembering that the man (and apparent love of his life, if Chey is to be believed) is standing quietly to the side. "I mean, you've technically met before, but under much less hospitable circumstances…"

Jet doesn't hear the rest of the meandering introduction as Hanxin clasps his hands and initiates the usual bow that people are so fond of in these parts. He returns the gesture, pausing just beyond a slight forward bend, arms extended and hands overlapping in front of himself. But the other man continues, sinking low until he's halfway to horizontal—a much deeper bow than appropriate for two strangers of the same generation and relatively similar social standing. What's up with that?

Jet's quite flustered for multiple reasons now, probably why he mixes up his greetings as he blurts out, "Uh, long time no see," to Hanxin, and "Nice to meet you," to Lu Ten. Then he dives to catch Miao, who's rubbing happily against Lu Ten's legs and screeches in fury as he picks her up, bows to General Iroh too for good measure, and flees from the tent, nerves unsettled like a boiling pot of water.

JJJ

"This is so unfair!" he grumbles to Miao, feeding her scraps from his lunch as he perches on an embankment at the north end of camp, overlooking the Sable River where it flows beyond the wall, away from everybody else.

He'd done a lot of snooping the rest of morning after skittering ungracefully out of the general's tent like a spooked platypus bear. Between Chey, Aang, Guo Bang, and some guy called Song Yu who nearly ran him over with a badger-mole, he'd managed to forge together a fairly coherent account of the enigmatic Hanxin.

"I mean, I should've known. Guy like Lu Ten, gorgeous, smart, funny—how could he not be taken? But then you look at Hanxin and you can't complain, because he's stupidly handsome and regal and saved Lu Ten's life a billion times and is a great musician and writes poetry to rouse souls and raise spirits… they're perfect for each other. Ugh."

He flings himself out to lie supine across the wall, staring forlornly skywards, only to be disturbed by a familiar voice.

"Hey Jet, wanna come watch me cross swords with Lu Ten?" Sokka calls up to him. "I heard he'd trained with Master Piandao, same as me, so this should be fun!"

Jet snorts, on the verge of declining. "Actually…" If he's going to be there… "I will, if only to see your face when he beats you every time." Jet's already had a turn with Sokka last week in the sparring grounds, averaging three wins to every one of Sokka's. He's not _bad, _but he'll won't make the top ten list without some serious training.

The second main arena in camp is large enough for about two hundred spectators, although much fewer line its wide circle today. Aang and Toph are present, presumably in support of Sokka. A number of soldiers from other origins congregate in the upper levels, filling their unscheduled time and curiosity about the Azure Dragon. Hanxin sits at ground level opposite the entrance as the competitors begin warming up.

Might as well. He crosses the arena floor brashly, calling out as he goes.

"Look sharp, Sokka."

"Jet, we have got to catch up at some point; I have so much to tell you," Lu Ten enthuses. As if the impending battle for which they have gathered is merely a big family reunion, a blessed opportunity to talk to old friends and acquaintances.

"Later, after you're done with this one."

"Hey, I'm standing right here," Sokka protests.

"And you'll be sitting on your ass right here once he's finished." He resists the temptation to draw one sword and catch Sokka's ankle with its hook, let him get a taste of what a true master would put him through. That would be unsportsmanlike, though. "Cheers!"

Hanxin looks up as he approaches, mildly bemused but welcoming. "May I?"

He gestures to the bench beside him, silently inviting Jet to sit.

Aang mentioned that Hanxin had lost his voice at some point, so he sits awkwardly for a few moments, stumped at how to tackle a conversation. Miao solves the problem for him by leaping onto the bench and peering curiously over at Hanxin. He smiles at the feline interloper, who decides that's invitation enough to sidle into his lap and start climbing all over him.

"She's just curious 'cause you smell like Lu Ten, and she can't get enough of him." Miao's not usually this unreserved with strangers.

Hanxin blushes. _Oh why did I say that out loud… _"N-not that you smell—or, that is, not that _I _can smell any… I'm just saying what I think _she _smells, and uh yeah… I'll shut up now."

He should stop running his mouth, since nothing coherent ever comes out of it. As they sit there quietly, he turns to the tricks he'd been trying to teach Miao, emphasis there on _trying. _

"Miao, sit!" He commands sternly. The cat is as flighty and free-spirited as her beloved Lu Ten, and his success rate with her is about one in ten on a good day. To his surprise, she obeys, primly resting on her haunches, though before long she starts shifting again, eager to get back to exploring. Hanxin's hands go around her back as she nuzzles against him, affectionate as anything.

"Sit, Miao. Shake hands," Jet says, holding out one hand to the cat. She wrinkles her nose at him but acquiesces, placing one paw delicately in his hand as if to say _see? I'm a good kitty (but only when you have company). _

He switches hands, then holds onto both of her front paws. "Dance, Miao!" And Miao, superbly miffed all the while, totters onto her hind legs and lumbers into the steps of a stilted jig for their entertainment. Hanxin watches in amusement, face suffused with that mild softness that reminds Jet of Lu Ten. He's the picture of contentment, expansive smile perking up an understated snub nose, hair pulled into a halfhearted topknot, spilling down in front of his face like tantalizing curtains guarding half-lidded eyes.

Jet blinks fast, dropping Miao's paws to the sound of a discontented 'mwror' as she tumbles back to all fours. _Get a grip on yourself. _Hanxin purses his lips at him questioningly.

_Try it, _he almost entices in an effort to divert that piercing gaze, but no, that wouldn't work, would it? He wonders if he can find some way to incorporate nonverbal cues into Miao's training.

"Do you… um, do you sign?" Puzzlement is his answer, so that's a no. "So you only speak through writing."

He mimics writing on paper with a brush, wrist twining in graceful curves with the strokes of each word. _Right. _Jet looks back at the arena, where the duel has commenced in earnest. He's surprised by the feeling of a gentle touch at his shoulder, characters traced with light fingers on his back. — Like this as well. —

…_yeah, that's significantly more distracting. _

Lu Ten outpaces Sokka in about sixty passes, and Hanxin motions for one of Jet's swords, using the tip to write on the sandy earth this time instead of Jet's shoulder, thank goodness. — He's holding back. —

Jet laughs at this sharp contrast to how hopeless Lu Ten was with his swords when they were wandering together.

"It's not fair; you've got two swords and I've only got one," Sokka complains. Lu Ten humors him, setting one blade aside without another word. Anyone could tell he can put Sokka away in forty paces with one sword and one hand tied behind his back.

He proceeds to do just that, his opponent unable to stand firm in the wake of his brazen onslaught. He is inches away from securing his victory, sending the meteorite sword flying, when Jet notices it. He winces, almost too subtle to see from this distance, as he throws his right shoulder out in his final stance. It's as if he's touched a hot surface and can't help but leap back.

— Did that ever happen when you were travelling together? —

Jet nods, recalling a few such times: when he redirected lightning from the banyan tree in the swamp, and when he did the same thing but from that old bastard Jeong Jeong. Back then, Lu Ten couldn't even remember what had caused his injuries. "Did he tell you what happened when he was captured by the Dai Li?"

He explains about breaking into Ba Sing Se and tugging the truth out of Long Shu's tightly fisted control. That city is a hellish, godforsaken place, but at least they've gotten what they need from it.

Lu Ten's still holding out in his third match against Sokka, but his limitations are making themselves clearer. He's ambidextrous and favoring his left arm now, but in those scant final moments, he brings his right arm back into a stronger two-handed grip. He shudders and recoils as he knocks his adversary off balance, sealing his victory but almost stumbling to his knees from the pain.

Jet's on his feet and ready to sprint across the battleground, but a tight grasp on his forearm impedes him. He reels in surprise as Hanxin searches his face with dark eyes, shaking his head.

"What? He's hurt, he needs help," Jet protests. Lu Ten's managed to catch himself on one knee, sword gripped in his left hand and firmly stabbed into the ground as a makeshift support. Sokka offers a hand to help him up, which he takes so casually that you'd never imagine the throbbing pain he's experiencing right now.

— Lu Ten is a figure of influence in this camp, — Hanxin traces on the ground with Jet's sword. — He must remain very conscious of the impression he gives. He cannot afford to appear weak. —

He gestures at the audience scattered throughout the training grounds, soldiers of all different backgrounds, united in their motivation to defend their homeland and their belief that the Azure Dragon will lead them to victory against forces beyond their ability to counteract singularly.

Jet sits back down. "I hadn't thought of that," he says, but it makes sense. To the soldiers, Lu Ten is an ideal leader, a promise in human form, that there is hope for victory.

Toph and Aang come down out of the stands and approach. "Not to worry—I'm getting old, clearly," Lu Ten reassures them jovially. Absolutely nobody looks convinced except maybe Sokka.

"Nah, Master Piandao can make that excuse, but you aren't quite that old yet," he snarks. "Let's go again! Best out of five?"

"Sokka, you're not exactly free the rest of the afternoon," Toph interjects. "You're supposed to be meeting with General Iroh and the other bigwigs; wouldn't want to miss that, would you?"

"Since when do you know my schedule better than I do?"

Toph's earthbending talent is sharp enough to detect minute changes in a person's heartbeat and poise. Lu Ten must be hiding a lot of pain despite his lighthearted affect and joking conversation. Jet sighs, unable to keep watching. He stares down at the ground, noting Hanxin's grasp still loose around his sword.

"Hey, um… I used to have a friend who wasn't a big fan of talking. Nice guy, but he had a shitty childhood,"—_well, didn't we all—, _"so we came up with a system of signs that he could use to express himself without speaking. It worked pretty well for him. Dunno if you'd be interested in learning something like that."

A grave frown, unenthusiastic. — Not a fan of pantomime. —

"It's not that, though." Longshot could speak but chose not to, most of the time, so the Freedom Fighters had adapted. He and Jet and Smellerbee had spent years developing a complex system of combined hand signs, facial expressions, and body language that worked in the context of their lifestyle. Everyone learned it, and Longshot had never felt excluded as a result.

"When you go back to the Fire Nation, you can't exactly carry a portable calligraphy set or a chalk and slate everywhere you go, can you? Or draw words on the back of his hand in front of his noble court—he's going to be the Fire Lord. If I've learned anything from this place, it's called _propriety, _which is stupid but inevitable."

Hanxin snorts, unable to contest that.

"He would learn it for your sake, I know he would. And if you systematized it thoroughly, made it easy to learn, you could teach everyone in the Fire Nation. Start the kids on it in primary school so everyone grows up knowing it." He leans back and rests his weight on his hands behind him, imagining a happier childhood for the Freedom Fighters. "Kids who can't speak or can't hear don't feel left out. No one would ever be left behind."

— I wouldn't know. I never went to school, — Hanxin conveys, smiling faintly.

"Yeah, me neither. My home village was pretty small and rundown… well, you saw it, what was left of it, anyways."

That sure put a damper on things. He's saved from having to salvage the conversation as Lu Ten starts to make his way over, finished chatting with Team Avatar (sans Avatar, that is).

"Think about it. You might change your mind," he urges. "Either way, come find me; we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. We could just train with swords if you need a refresher." To Hanxin, he holds out a hand for his sword. To Lu Ten, he waves the other carelessly. "I'm off now. Nice match."

"But Jet, weren't we going to talk—"

"Nah, very busy, stuff to do," he interrupts, suddenly eager to be anywhere but here. "See you around!"

He strides out of the arena quickly, avoiding conversation with anyone, Miao grouchily clinging to his heels as he walks.

"You could've stayed with him," he tells her.

"Mrrrp?"

"But you're right, I could use the company," he admits.

LLL

**LU TEN**

That evening, they have visitors.

"You haven't met Katara yet, but she's basically the best healer and waterbender ever." Aang introduces a girl about Zuko's age in Water Tribe dress, a waterskin slung across one shoulder and a canvas medicine satchel being her sole, practical accoutrements.

"Aang, Sokka, and Toph asked me to take a look at your shoulder injury after today's match," she explains matter-of-factly. "Do you mind?"

A warm rush of contentment ripples through him, gratitude at the thought of his cousin's friends being concerned for him, a relative stranger. It speaks to the strength of their friendship that they extend such kindness to him, even in Zuko's absence.

"Not at all. Uh, should I…" He moves to shrug his shirt off his shoulders.

"If you would," she says, business-like, already setting up her supplies on the table.

Their tent has partitions—unimaginable back in the day when Shinu was his commanding officer and choked off anything he deemed to be exorbitant expenses. Hanxin comes around the curtain that separates their private sleeping quarters, hearing voices not his own. He pauses, then goes to retrieve his _erhu._

"Let me see your range of motion." Katara stands in front of him, arms mirroring his, directing each move. He's fine until he starts to raise his right arm above horizontal. It twinges as he reaches overhead, and he drops it quickly.

She makes a thoughtful sound, the low murmur of the _erhu_ whispering behind them as Hanxin ponders new strains for a fresh composition, Aang sitting next to him and listening intently. The brazier on the table beside him rustles softly with the pop and crackle of burning coals. Katara sits at his back, touch light and almost imperceptible on his injured shoulder. The sound of four separate breaths, unlabored, unhurried, drifts through the tent like the amiable west wind. It is a peaceful summer evening. No one could imagine that five days hence, it will be but a memory.

"It'll take time to heal a wound as old as this," she tells him. "Three days of concentrated healing and no less."

"But you're sure you can do it?"

"Of course. Nerve injuries of the body can heal, even if it's very slow going. Injuries in the brain—not so much; those tend to be permanent."

She starts by stimulating the blood vessels around the injury, the reasoning being that healing the nerve alone will do no good if it hasn't a decent blood supply to sustain it.

"Bloodbending," she pronounces, unapologetic, her touch now firm and massaging. "I first used it in self-defense. It wouldn't be my choice of attack unless there were no other alternative, but that's no reason to shy away from the value it brings to the healing arts. I did this for Zuko as well when he was healing from Azula's lightning attack."

_Amazing—_Lu Ten's never heard of such techniques being used, and he marvels again at his cousin's luck in winning the most talented company to his cause. _Born lucky, wasn't he?_

"Waterbending seems such a versatile art," he notes, mentally contrasting it against the hackneyed, unimaginative forms taught in Fire Nation schools. Straight kick, flying kick, open palm blows, closed fist—no way to dodge the rigidity and stagnation of pure offensive firebending. "When I visited the Foggy Swamp tribe west of the Yuanfen Sea, I took inspiration from their bending style to develop the technique of lightning redirection."

"Now that would have been helpful for Zuko to know before Azula shot him full of lightning," Katara remarks, a hint of a scowl darkening her features. "Hopefully it will help him in his battle against the Fire Lord, though."

HHH

**HANXIN**

"I'm not entirely certain where Zuko is right now," Aang confesses. "It's been bugging me."

With the other two occupied across the room, the _erhu's_ lyrical melody staining the gap between them, Aang's voice is just muted enough to reach his ears alone. He supposes Aang doesn't want to disrupt all the concentrated healing going on.

"He's disappeared. Usually I can feel him even in my spirit projection, but last I knew, he had wrapped things up at Pohuai Fortress, the stronghold of Colonel Shinu."

Aang fiddles with his prayer bead necklace. "Yes, he went to avenge Lu Ten," he says, correctly interpreting the query in his eyes at that familiar name. "Apparently the colonel is no more, and the Yuyan archers have disbanded to serve their own ends. They will not fight in this battle."

It was worth it, then. To send Zuko into a teetering spiral of righteous wrath, to let him deliver on a debt that Lu Ten would never bother collecting.

"Maybe he's in the spirit world," Aang conjectures. "Though if he is, he's spending an awfully long time in there."

Hanxin puts his _erhu _down. In the comfort of his own tent, it is convenient enough to pull out paper and brush, inky strokes taking the place of his voice, and he prickles a little at Jet's insinuation that it might not be enough.

— Can't you go to the spirit world to search for him? —

"Maybe? It might be possible with spirit projection—basically I vomit my spirit out of my body temporarily and ignore the constraints of physics to go flying all over the world like a ghost on vacation," he explains for Hanxin's benefit. "I don't know if it would get me to the spirit world, though. I've never actually been there. I have been inside Zuko's spirit before because I wanted to talk to the previous Avatar."

— Two souls in one body? —

"Mm," Aang confirms. "Well, it all comes down to fractions. How much room does one body have to accommodate multiple souls? How much metaphysical space exists in Zuko and my relationship? Can we constantly co-orbit, or will we stifle each other with too much gravitational pull, eventually collapsing?"

Aang should have lost him there, but somehow, Hanxin finds clarity in his circuitous reasoning. Two souls, admixed, then divided again, one soul to each body—that sounds about right.

"Generally, I try to err on the side of more space, more freedom for us to do our own thing. It's the quintessential philosophy of the Air Nomads. The whole two souls, one body thing was just because he was in a coma and wasn't really present in his body anyways."

He suppresses a smile at Aang's rambling; he doesn't want Lu Ten to think they're talking about him behind his back or something. — Has anyone ever told you to consider a career as a guru? —

"You know, I rather think they have."

HHH

_18 June._

Katara continues with the healing for the next couple of days. Hanxin clasps Lu Ten's free hand tightly as he grits his teeth in discomfort. Katara explains that the initial regrowth of nerves can be aberrant and result in excess stimulation as newly sprouted nerve endings run awry.

He feels her curious eyes on him as he sits silently at Lu Ten's side, but he wasn't expecting her to turn to him at the end of the second evening's session, a little hesitant. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

He blinks in surprise at being thus addressed. _Well…_

"I would guess that your injuries took place around the same time. I might be able to help."

He glances at Lu Ten, noting the hopeful glint in his eyes. He would hate to disappoint that hope. It's worth a try.

She hm's pensively, the tinge of healing water cool over his throat. "There's nothing wrong with your vocal cords or your voice box, not that I can feel, anyways."

He taps his forehead meaningfully. _It's in here._

"Oh." She understands. Cool water envelops his temples, her touch probing the very matter of his mind, but it is futile.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I don't think I can… how did it happen?"

Lu Ten explains, having been apprised of the details.

— It was as if a spirit stole my voice away, — Hanxin traces on Lu Ten's uninjured shoulder for him to relay. —There one moment, gone the next. —

Katara takes her leave somberly, and Lu Ten turns to him, breath already drawn to speak. Hanxin cuts him off with a hand. _Don't._

So he does not. They hold each other tightly for a time. They have each other at least, voice or no voice.

After Lu Ten falls asleep in his arms, he revisits Jet's parting words to him yesterday. He's right. Say Lu Ten becomes Fire Lord one day. He will have enemies in high places, courtiers who were favored by Ozai, who won't be pleased about the change in sovereigns. Hanxin's not going to be much help against them in an official capacity if he can't readily convey his thoughts in a nice and accurate way. Lu Ten would never say so, and possibly doesn't even recognize it as a shortcoming. He's always been a bit nearsighted when it comes to those he loves.

That's all assuming they survive the comet. But that's as much as he'd told Jet in writing, isn't it? Lu Ten is an icon of hope to those who want to defend Ba Sing Se. He wears a different face, a heavier mask laden with duty and symbolism. Azure Dragon, Lieutenant Colonel, Prince of the Fire Nation—all meant to be larger than life, greater than himself. After knowing everything that he stands for, it would be expressly hypocritical of Hanxin not to believe in an optimistic outcome.

It occurs to him that Jet's initial discombobulation upon meeting him in Iroh's tent was not necessarily linked to jealousy or ill will. He likely doesn't understand why Hanxin bowed so deeply, especially given that they have a lot more in common with each other than with Lu Ten in terms of socioeconomic class. For Hanxin, there was no question: he staked his life on bringing Lu Ten's memories back and restoring his identity, and that is worth every accolade. He's still not sure that Jet has the solution for his woes, but if this helps, he may have still more gratitude in store.

LLL

_19 June. _**LU TEN**

"Have you ever heard of the spirit Koh?" Katara asks on the third day.

Lu Ten shakes his head no, but Hanxin nods.

"He is a fearsome beast, a creature that is drawn to places of great emotional turmoil. He loves to be wherever human unrest is greatest."

She unwraps a poultice from Lu Ten's shoulder, having placed the warm pack with fragrant herbal accents there to stimulate circulation before beginning the evening's therapy. He shivers as cool air meets his skin.

"Many elders of the remnants of the Northern Water Tribe have been telling me of a certain unrest leading up to the battle in two days' time. The last time they felt such malaise was before the fall of the North Pole half a century ago."

"That was Admiral Zhao of the northern fleet," he recalls from his history lessons. "Under his command, Avatar Kuruk was defeated, though not without significant losses. Sorry…" he adds hastily as Katara catches him with a sharp glance. It's disconcertingly reminiscent of how he once sat on the lip of a volcano and recounted to Zuko how their forefathers destroyed each preceding Avatar.

"You're not wrong. But many people outside of the Water Tribes don't know of the role Koh played in our defeat, how he stole the face of Avatar Kuruk's bride at the spirit oasis where the moon and ocean spirits reside. I'm surprised you'd heard of him, Hanxin."

At some point, Hanxin's acquired an easel laden with paper absorbent enough to keep the ink from running down the page. He props it up conveniently next to them, detailing his response in wide, luxurious strokes.

— I know more about his origin story, to tell the truth. A few miles south of my hometown, there is a place called the Valley of Forgetfulness, outside the village of Hira'a. That is where a spirit called the Mother of Faces lives. —

Lu Ten listens in interest, having passed through the village in question with Zuko, without being aware of the legend associated with it.

— Koh was the son of the Mother of Faces, and at first, they passed their days in happiness, creating faces for humans. But Koh rebelled, wanting to experiment with stranger and more fascinating faces: the face of a blue-maned monkey with a red nose, or a face with stardust for eyes and no mouth, only a gaping cosmic chasm, you get the idea. These were altogether garish and terrifying to the humans who witnessed them.

— His mother commanded to him stop. When he refused and continued willfully assigning these faces to people, his mother took away his ability and cast him out of her sight. —

Katara has Lu Ten flex, extend, raise, and arm out to the side and back in towards his body as she continues the healing process. His range of motion is already starting to feel less restricted, more natural.

— After that, he could only steal faces, not create them for others. The lore doesn't tell what happened to him afterwards; it's primarily intended as a cautionary tale against overstepping one's boundaries and being unfilial to one's parents. —

"It would certainly explain Hira'a's propensity for loving dramatizations with outlandishly lurid persona masks." Lu Ten remembers watching more than one play by the local drama troupe where the nightmarish masks distracted him entirely from the plot.

"Koh is a spirit; he knows no geographic bounds," Katara reasons. "He may hail from the Valley of Forgetfulness, but he was present at the North Pole, and he could certainly make an appearance here. It worries us because Zuko isn't here. As the Avatar, he'd have the means to get Koh to go quietly without messing with anyone's face."

A fleeting thought slips through the back of Lu Ten's mind; whatever it was, he loses it amid the strands of worry now that he has occasion to think about Zuko's absence.

"He'll turn up," he says confidently. "He wouldn't abandon everything at the last minute."

LLL

There's no pivotal moment when he feels his shoulder is entirely healed, but rather a gradual sense of well-being as the hours progress.

"It's like healing the heart: slow and gradual. Take things too fast and you end up rupturing a wounded heart like new wine in old wineskins," Katara says when he mentions this, awed and grateful beyond words to her for healing him. She glances at Hanxin, his expression hidden from view.

— So young to be so wise. — It would appear that they are now of the age where they can say such things unironically.

"You tend to grow up fast in the shadow of expectations that you leave a legacy," she says levelly. "Aang knows. Zuko knows. And I'm sure _you _know."

_Indeed. _"Thank you," he manages. "May you find the light that throws the shadow of those expectations and rejoice in it."

He intends it as a benediction, but she only smiles, warped and weary. "That light is the comet's halo, drawing nearer every day."

LLL

_20 June._

Lu Ten lingers after the final war council is dismissed, the evening before the comet's arrival. His father smiles at him still standing there.

"Some tea to calm your spirits tonight." He gestures at the low table in the center of the tent, two cushions set to right angles beside it, closer and less stilted than his formal desk. Lu Ten sits, and Iroh stoops to light the brazier under a fresh pot of jasmine tea.

"Tea and wise counsel." As they wait for the tea to boil, he rolls his jade lotus token between his fingers, an upgrade of sorts from the wooden pai sho tile Master Piandao gave him years ago, when he and Zuko left his tutelage. At the time, he hadn't realized that it was a calling card, an invitation to become an initiate of the order. Accordingly, the White Lotus have entrusted the majority of the nonbending units to Piandao and Lu Ten, given his experience working with nonbenders. He knows he cannot promise them safe passage through the trial that is Sozin's comet, and his heart aches at the thought of so many lives to be lost senselessly, time and time again.

"Wise counsel?" Iroh makes a show of hemming and hawing about it. "I fear there's none to be found here." He taps his temple, teasing, feigning his dotage. "Not much that I haven't already imparted to you, that is. The rest, you gain through experience, and I know you have plenty of that from your time spent at war, and your countless victories."

He wrinkles his nose, not swayed by his father's praise. "I had help with those, Father. I can't take all the credit."

"Hanxin?" Iroh inquires knowingly. "Of course. But what's to fear? He will be at your side this time around as well. I'm surprised he's not here with you tonight. Surely you knew he would be welcome at the council?"

"No, actually. He had other plans, said he was going to go find Jet for something; I'm not sure what exactly."

"Oh?" Iroh lifts the boiling teapot, pouring a cup for each of them. "He didn't tell you?"

Lu Ten closes his eyes and breathes in the soothing scent of jasmine. "I don't know everything about Hanxin. He doesn't tell me everything, but there's nothing wrong with that. We are not one person." He takes a sip, the gentle, astringent taste curling around his tongue, smooth and delightful. "How lonely that would be, a couple who has made themselves one, so completely, that they are once again alone."

He looks over at his father, stymied by the long silence. Iroh regards him with warm fondness, hands curled around his cup, tea untouched. Lu Ten suddenly worries that one or both of them might lose control of their tear glands, though not for the first time of late.

"Anyways," he says in a hurry, eager to divert the coming flood, "perhaps he's gone for a late-night training session, or just to talk and reminisce. You know, Hanxin and I actually met Jet years ago when he was a boy, fleeing the ruins of his village in the aftermath of Colonel Mongke's rampage. I'm oddly proud of him; after all, I'd seen him at his worst: eight years old, home burned down, family gone, chased by a band of crazed firebenders… and look at him now," he muses. "It's not like I had any role in his upbringing. I don't know that I have the _right _to be proud of him, but still, I am."

Iroh clears his throat, a strange warble tickling his voice. "Likewise."

It takes him a moment to realize that his father means proud of _him. _Justified or not, that remains to be seen.

"Jet, Hanxin, Master Piandao, the Avatar's companions, all the various allies, converging here… it gives me a sense of something _big _coming." He can't qualify the feeling much more than that. Perhaps it's influenced by what Katara told him of Koh and her people's premonitions of the spirit, a presence to be anticipated in the coming battle.

And yet it's more than that. The world will not be the same after tomorrow. Victory or defeat, either way, everything will be different. The question to be addressed is, will he even be around to see how different it is?

"You will remember your battle stances, that invulnerable feeling for warmaking, when dawn comes. You have not lost it." Iroh sighs, putting his cup down and laying a hand over Lu Ten's, balled into a fist on the table. "Do not fear. Many things that seem threatening in the dark become welcoming when we shine light on them."

Katara's parting words echo in his mind. _That light is the comet's halo, drawing nearer every day._ And the shadow it casts is interminably long.

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you for reading! Chapter writing notes are here.

archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/58873012

They discuss Koh; Jet and Hanxin's relationship; Hanxin and Lu Ten's relationship; and some stuff to do with healing. Kudos to anyone who caught the Welcome to Night Vale quote; it's probably my favorite line in this chapter :)

The next four chapters comprise the grand finale. I estimate that it's about 50% written at this point, but I want to have it complete before posting, because there are a number of cliffhangers, and I don't want to leave you all hanging for too long. I've just finished the second board exam and my family medicine clerkship remediation, which had been bugging me for a while as some readers may recall, so for once, I have a month of relatively few obligations. Clerkships are set to resume at the end of June, so I plan to start posting the finale in July, one chapter a week. I mean, that's the plan, but plans can change ;)

After that's done, the series will be marked complete, because technically all the story that needs to be told has been told (and so that people who have been waiting for it to be complete can finally read it, lol). There will be a number of epilogues; I haven't decided on the content besides one steamy LuXin scene :P These aren't intended to be full-blown sequels, but rather short one-shots wrapping up plot points that weren't fully addressed. For ease of access, I'll add them on as extra chapters to the end of _heaven need a sinner. _Some won't be fully fleshed out, but more headcanon-style, explaining what I imagine for the characters in the future.

Anyways, thank you for reading this far! You all are gems, and your support makes me glow! If you have ideas for things you want to see discussed in epilogues, message me and I will think about it! No guarantees :3


	15. Sozin's Comet Part 1: The Final Agni Kai

**A/N**: Oh man, you guys. This was exhausting to write. Zuko and Azula's parts were easy, but Aang and Lu Ten's were like pulling teeth. A lot of the White Lotus strategizing/battling stuff was handwritten over the course of three days in the park when I was kicked out of my house because the landlady's showing it to potential buyers, sigh.

* * *

_20 June. _**AZULA**

She reins Snowy in as the mountains loom higher. As they canter to a halt, she infers that they are not mountains at all, but rather stalagmite-like outcroppings of stone, ancient and monolithic. They have likely seen the rise and fall of empires, and they will watch, silent and uncaring, as history repeats itself today.

She dismounts, letting Snowy rest at what looks to be the last grassy hillock before the terrain gives way to unforgiving stone. "You needn't come looking for me," she tells the ostrich-horse, who contentedly continues grazing, ignoring her. She undoes the saddle and bit, letting the whole tack slip to the ground, no longer needed.

The hike towards the turrets of Wulong Forest is steep and taxing, but Azula finds herself charged with energy, fated to meet the new day. Dawn bleeds redder today, the first hint of the comet's approach seeping across the sky. If she remembers correctly, the airship base is located just southwest of here, along the coast. She won't be able to miss their takeoff. At that time, she'll make herself known to her father, and what happens thereafter does not matter.

In the shadow of the forest, she looks up, dwarfed by mighty peaks. Some of them are dotted with sheer ledges, on which grow sparse evergreens, the plants finding life even in such a harsh environment. They survived, just like her.

But not for much longer. The inferno awaits.

AAA

**LU TEN**

Hanxin frowns when Lu Ten unveils his new armor the night before the battle. It is of the same custom make as before, blue scale overlapping with silver accents, but judging by Hanxin's expression alone, it's clearly the ugliest, most unaesthetic set of armor ever made.

"Did they do something wrong?" Lu Ten inspects all sides of the suit. "It looks fine to me."

— Conspicuous. —

"Well yes, that's the point. I need to be conspicuous so the men will know who to rally to, where to look for orders. I'm not supposed to hide."

— I know. Just… — He shakes his head, knowing his argument to be futile before he starts it. The candle behind him flickers, casting dire shadows across the worry sculpted on his face. — The enemy will be able to identify and target you more easily as well. —

"Have you forgotten 'The Song of the White Horse?'" Lu Ten asks archly.

Of heroes brave his name is on the roll;

He cared not when his death knell would toll.

The nation at stake: he would give his last breath.

And equate homecoming with his heroic death

Hanxin rolls his eyes, cornered by his rhetoric. There is no arguing with their fate. It will come to pass, armor or no armor. Lu Ten makes up his mind. "Put it on me."

Hanxin considers disobeying, but Lu Ten knows how to coax him. "Put it on me, and then afterwards, you get to take it off me. _Plus, _everything else underneath."

A long, heavy exhale, his lover's breath a fine blend of exasperation and fondness. _Very well then._

LLL

_21 June. _**HANXIN**

"Here we are again, before the storied Outer Wall." Lu Ten sighs, lifting his chin in a resigned gesture for his armor. Hanxin takes up each piece in turn with leaden hands, imagining them rent and bloodied as he once saw them, when they failed Lu Ten's body and nearly cost him his life. Not again.

Not again.

_"I wonder if any among you, my esteemed colleagues, are familiar with the legend of Lady Meng Jiang?" Long Shu asks the room at large. "It is one of the most ancient love stories told by our people, a romance to span time and distance."_

_Hanxin looks at her, barely putting forth the effort to disguise his distaste. She is, after all, the woman who tortured Lu Ten without mercy during his captivity with the Dai Li. Love and devotion are two words improbably removed from her._

_She comes under cover of night to solidify the White Lotus' plan of defense a few days before the comet. Iroh, Jeong Jeong, Piandao, Team Avatar, and various other representatives are present as well. They must coordinate wisely, for the battle will take place along two fronts. Neither is invulnerable, but with any luck, this will play out to their advantage._

_"Lady Meng Jiang was a noble young woman who fell in love with an escaped laborer from the early days of the Outer Wall's construction. He was a scholarly young man named Wan Xiliang, who had been compelled into servitude and fleeing a life of hard labor, sought refuge in her garden._

With infinite care and gentleness, Hanxin lowers the long apron of fine chain mail over Lu Ten's head. It cascades past his knees, tinkling quietly where it hangs, chains that protect, but also bind—they bind him to his duty, to fight, to put his life at risk for a war that is not his own. Today, those chains pull impossibly taut.

_"She harbored him, and as time passed and their love grew, with the permission of her parents, they were wed. But on the day of their wedding, a jealous suitor reported Wan Xiliang to the authorities, and he was captured and sent back to the wall, far, far away."_

He attaches the graven breastplate next, front and back gleaming silver like a wedding chalice. Iroh may have given his permission, but it feels inutile in the face of the coming battle. They cannot be wed at this rate unless it is in the bloody throes of war, enemies and allies alike as their guests, gargling death rattles instead of a lilting dance number.

Moving down his body, Hanxin fastens burnished bracers to Lu Ten's arms, their backs inlaid with the brilliant overlying scales of his namesake. A long skirt of these same scales, each painted a unique shade of blue, ripples down his front. Hanxin watches as his lover's body is hidden from view, covered entirely in cold metal, forged and unyielding.

_"Lady Meng Jiang, deeply aggrieved, had no news of him for months. Finally, she set out for the wall to search for him. When she arrived, she learned that he had died from the hardships of labor, and his body had been thrown into the wall, to be covered over by unfeeling earth and stone, lost forever. _

_"Lady Meng Jiang wept for her husband, torn from her arms too soon without even a body to bury. She wept so long and loudly that at last, the wall itself crumbled and split open to reveal her husband's bones. They were finally reunited. It is said that she threw herself into the sea in the end, seeking her husband beyond death." _

Hanxin cannot easily kiss him with the helmet in the way, so he settles for running his fingers over Lu Ten's lips, smoothing out their perfect curve.

— I love you, — he traces, desperately, harshly. The ink would smear and blot all over the page if he were writing the words on paper. The parallels between their love and Lady Meng Jiang's doomed love are too easily drawn; one would almost think Long Shu had done it intentionally. The hapless youth, fleeing pain and peril, seeking safe haven with a blossoming lover; their springtime romance disrupted, the young man taken away to die in the bowels of the earth. No funeral rites, no rest for the weary.

_"There is one Dai Li agent under me who serves the Fire Nation." Long Shu switches topics abruptly, businesslike now. "I detected his betrayal months ago but let him believe I knew nothing. I routinely leak information to him that the Fire Nation may think useful. For example, the fact that the section of the Outer Wall directly adjacent to Lake Laogai's southwest corner was largely constructed with manual labor and contains thousands of corpses of dead laborers used to compensate for lack of building material." _

_"Is it true?" Lu Ten asks. "That the wall is weaker there because of poor structural integrity from the time it was built?"_

_"It is partially true," Long Shu concedes. "As the legend goes, the wall was indeed built by legions of forced laborers, no small number of whom went on to form actual parts of the wall after they died. But you have all seen the wall, and some among you know personally how hard it was to bring down." She bows gravely, just a few shades shy of obsequious, to General Iroh. "A thousand corpses in the foundations would do nothing to destabilize it. You could easily stuff the entire populace of the Lower Ring in there; it would make no difference. It remains impregnable."_

_"But the Fire Nation commanders don't know that." Realization begins to dawn on Lu Ten. "They know nothing of the intricacies of earthbending, and you've fed them a plausible lie."_

_"Even so," Long Shu agrees. _

_"They may know nothing of earthbending, but they are well-versed in war-making," General Iroh says. "They will not let on that they have decided to concentrate their forces on that spot. They will simulate great shows of force, marching on a different site instead, to distract us from their true intention."_

_"Then we must mirror them: make a show of power at the western front, when in reality, our forces must be more evenly distributed." Admiral Jeong Jeong is a shrewd-looking man, hair wild and cruel scars stark across one eye. He delivers his strategy with utter gravitas and conviction, aware of how it will shake the room. _

_"The point of our maneuvers is not to defend the Outer Wall, but __**to allow it to be broken**__." _

It is time. His love stands before him, fully armed, laden with fortune and fear. There will be no fleeing their destiny today.

"Hanxin, promise me—"

Before he can finish his sentence, Hanxin lays a finger across his lips. _Not this time._

Defeated, he nods and settles for kissing the hand that trembles over his mouth. So dear, so loved, and yet scarcely loved for long enough. He strides out of the tent, ready for the fray. Hanxin follows, and behind them, a scrap of paper flutters to the ground, his last composition, never to be uttered:

I have loved you forever, it seems, and yet all too briefly

For eternity, but only in the space between two breaths

The first taken when you drew air in to tell me your name

The second expired when you said your last words—my name

Two breaths and a life suspended between them

A love lost after them

Some things are best left unsaid. Voicing them aloud makes them too uncomfortably real.

_There is a manic glee in the deserter's eyes, the unorthodoxy tantalizing to his crafty mind. "We propose to trap the enemy forces between the two walls and cut off their means of retreat. Walls can be repaired, but lives cannot be so easily replaced." _

_Jeong Jeong and Iroh are thinking on the scale of nations. If they merely deplete the Fire army and allow them to retreat, there will come a day when all this pain and strife must be reenacted. But if they defeat the enemy outright, the Fire Nation stands no chance of rallying again within the next generation._

_Lu Ten thinks on the level of the common man. He presses his folded hands before his mouth, his affect concerned and strained. The more damage they inflict on the enemy, the more sacrifice they must demand of their own forces. How much is too much?_

HHH

**LU TEN**

He has never defended a sieged city before. The Outer Wall has been repaired since his father broke through years ago, and that toil lasted six hundred days. It is easy to defend a city, but difficult to besiege it, this is known by all. Yet this time around, the Fire army has a weapon they have not utilized before.

_"Lavabenders," Guo Bang says with an irreconcilably grave air. "In recent years, there have been a number of benders of joint Fire and Earthen descent in the colonies who have the ability to bend lava. Nominally, their discipline remains rooted in earthbending, yet many of them chose to side with the Fire Nation when we drove them out of Yu Dao."_

Now here they are, marching on the wall. A row of archers in the front, waiting to get within firing range. Behind them, several ranks of firebenders (_skull-faced helmets still in fashion, I see, _Lu Ten observes critically). Within these ranks are sown the lavabenders who will pioneer the assault on the wall. And finally, the body of the contingent, composed of nonbenders.

On the wall, Lu Ten stands to the fore, Hanxin at his right hand, Jet at his left. To each side stands a file of archers, forty wide, interspersed with earthbenders, both of the Dai Li and from throughout the Earth Kingdom. Their numbers are sparse; they do not intend to hold the wall for long.

The enemy approaches to a hundred paces, and Lu Ten looses the arrows. Here lies the finesse of their gambit: they cannot make the wall too difficult to take, for fear that the enemy will flag and choose another front. Neither can they make it too easy, or the enemy will suspect a trap, which is precisely what they have in mind.

The archers fire in volleys at Lu Ten's command, and then at will. The advancing lines run ragged with fallen men, but the remainder do not falter. At fifty paces, they open fire on the wall in turn.

"Watch this." With an elegant, decisive sweep of his arm, he lets forth a lasso of fire that twirls out before the wall, expanding to capture all the arrows in its loop. In the split second of their zenith, before they begin their descent, his fiery whip snaps and crackles, radiant flames incinerating every arrow instantaneously. _Behold the power of the comet. _

"You're going to have to do better than that, Azure Dragon!"

A familiar voice, yet difficult to place. A lone rider on rhino-back canters along the flank of the contingent towards the front. He holds the reins in one hand, and his helmet rests under his other arm, revealing a tall ponytail flecked with red-tailed hawk feathers. An imposing figure, hard to forget though many years separate Lu Ten from their last encounter.

It's Colonel Mongke—no, General Mongke now, promoted in the absence of any serviceable superiors. Beside Lu Ten, Jet snarls in recognition, stepping forward. Lu Ten clamps a hand down on his shoulder, firm but promising. _You will have your revenge, later._

"Firebenders!"

The lines draw even closer, enough for two hundred firebenders to prepare their blasts and aim for the wall. Their fire cannot bring it down, but fell flame can devastate those defending it. On the wall, the archers lay down their bows and raise tall shields against the fire. The earthbenders crouch down, launching tons of boulders prepared for this purpose, lobbing them blindly into the frothing mass of armaments at the foot of the wall. All is ablaze, but Lu Ten stands firm, immoveable.

LLL

**AANG**

He hunkers down in the little cave near the airship base that he's chosen as a stakeout spot with Appa. The sky burns crimson under the comet, and the imperial fleet is due to set out at any moment.

He feels the deep roar of the engines as much as he hears them, the vibrations resonating deep in his skull. Appa rumbles low in response, and Aang gets to his feet, staff in hand, eyes skyward. The ships are taking off, but he'll wait until they've made a solid ascent and are flying over open water.

"I wonder if they have occupational safety and health regulations," he ponders, Appa having no answer for him. "You know, life jackets under each seat in the cockpit, parachutes strapped to their vests, that kind of thing…"

Probably not. The Fire Nation expects absolute victory today. They have no backup plan.

AAA

_Two days earlier… _

Toph corners him after he receives his instructions for the day of the comet. "Aang, have you ever actually killed anyone?"

He thinks about it. "I'm not sure," he confesses. "I mean, at some point, yes, but I don't remember exactly when."

He can't deny it: he must have directly caused someone's death, sometime or another. They were more frequent early in his travels with Zuko but ceased after they moved into the Northern Air Temple. Back when they'd absconded with Toph from her home in Gaoling; when they'd routed the Fire Nation at the mining colony; when the Freedom Fighters helped them escape an ambush in the forest; when he'd strangled Azula half to death, assuming that she'd killed Zuko. All life or death instances, too urgent to carefully ponder and constrain his reactions.

"How can you not remember?" She sounds as if she's been keeping careful tally of every life she's ended, which Aang doubts.

"There are lots of things you don't remember when you're amped up on adrenaline," he protests. "You stop keeping track of how many times other people have tried to kill you, too. It all blends together, and you're too numb to bother with bookkeeping. That's just how it is."

_I shouldn't have to explain to you, of all people,_ hovers unspoken between them.

"Well, you didn't have to say it out loud like that," Toph says after an awkward pause. "Didn't even give me a rock to stand on."

"But you do. You do have to say it out loud." He grips the scroll given to him by Sokka and Master Piandao. It contains schematics of the airship base's location, how many and what types of airships they have, and how to dismantle their buoyancy mechanisms by simple manipulation of air pressure—perfectly suited to his abilities. The White Lotus prides itself on selecting the best person for every job, and it seems that they're passing on their duties of delegation to Sokka, a promising initiate.

"Saying it out loud makes it lose its power, makes it real and therefore conquerable." He's thinking on the fly here, almost rambling, but for once, Toph doesn't blow him off. "You accept that it's okay to be fucked up, that _you're_ not fucked up for killing people out of necessity and then wondering how much blood is on your hands. It's not you as an individual that's fucked up, but the world that allows it to be like this."

_Damn, I'm really closing in on Toph's lead for most crudeness in speech, _he thinks with a jolt of inappropriately placed pride. Atypical stress response and all that.

"Are you sure you want to do this, though?" Toph's metal bracelet is in her hands, forming and reforming itself into vaguely shaped inky black blobs. "What if the Fire Lord is there? They could have sent someone more qualified."

Aang bristles at the insinuation that he's not up to par. "Like who? I'm plenty qualified. Airbender, yes?"

"Exactly." The space earth morphs and molds itself, and as it takes the shape of a tiny replica of Toph's old Earth Rumble champion belt, Aang understands: 1) among their fragmented little team, besides Zuko, she's the one who's known him the longest, and 2) she's _worried_. Toph doesn't fidget. She'll sit stoic or slouch like a slob depending on how interested she is in any given situation, but she never displays unsettled nerves, except now, apparently.

"We don't know if Zuko will make it in time. What about General Iroh? Can't he take out a whole fleet with his dragon's breath, his brother included? What about me, the most accomplished, that is to say, ONLY metalbender in existence? Why force one pacifist monk to have an existential crisis just because he happens to be able to do a bunch of hocus pocus with airbending?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're actually concerned for my immortal soul." He trades gravity for flippancy, trying to redeem the mood. It doesn't work.

"Oh, forget it," she snarls, making to stomp off in pique.

"Toph, no—" He leaps without thought, floating through the air to descend before her and halt her escape. "I know you're worried for me, and I appreciate it, but I'm less of an Air Nomad than you think. I don't really have any qualms about what I have to do."

He says this a little bitterly, and Toph blinks, less certain than he's ever seen her. "You don't?"

"Could I lie to you? Look, if I was an airbender living two hundred years ago, I might be like, 'All lives are sacred,' and carry on with my day. But I don't have that luxury today. None of us do. And I think my forebears will forgive me if I forego a few dozen lives to save a few thousand."

"Hmph." Toph's palmful of space earth resolves back into bracelet form, settling over her arm. Aang tracks the motion with puzzled eyes_. Oh. _

"You were nervous to confront me about this."

"Me?!" She affects affronted outrage, shaking a finger angrily in his face. "_Never. _Don't know what put such a stupid thought into your air-filled head…"

"You were!" he persists. "Were you expecting to have to talk me down? Cajole me into battle-worthiness, huh?"

She scuffs her feet, making sure to kick up plenty of dust to cover his shoes. "I just didn't want things to end on a sour note, like the last time you ran away. Didn't know if we'd ever see you again."

The last time he ran away… oh, Toph. They certainly did part on less than friendly terms when he ran away in the Freedom Fighters' forest.

"Hey, watch it!" she squawks as he envelops her in a sneak attack of a hug. Her flailing is just for show—there are many ways to say 'I love you', after all, like: "Go kick some Fire Nation butt and drag that stray cat Zuko back if you find him."

She returns his hug by smacking him in the arm a little less forcefully than usual. _That's how I show affection._

AAA

_Present day_

He soars above the clouds to hide from searching eyes before descending in controlled spirals. They don't expect an attack from above—they don't expect any attack at all. He lands on the airship to the far-right arm of the fleet, metal body bronzed and warming under the blazing sun.

It's hard to tell at first, but he counts off with his fingers, squinting through the sun's glare, and there seem to be thirteen ships in total, rather more than the eight he was told to expect. _Better get on with it._

It is then that he sees what fills his heart with dread. At the head of the fleet's arrow-shaped formation flies a huge warship, longer and grander than the rest. Aang trots forward along the roof until he confirms what he had feared. Fire Lord Ozai stands at the platform to the fore of the gondola. Aang can't make out his features from here, but that ostentatious gilt crown is very telling.

_Monkey feathers, this is way above my pay grade, _Aang despairs. _And that's quite an understatement considering my pay is zero._

Just as he's debating what to do—take out Ozai's ship first? Start with this one and hope he doesn't notice? — his decision is made for him. A vast splinter of lightning strikes Ozai's ship, erupting in flames and smoke. This was no natural phenomenon, though, and the thunder to follow will yield no rain, but only scorching flame, blue against golden.

Azula is here.

AAA

**AZULA**

For Zuko, she tells herself as the dark dots on the horizon draw nearer. For Zuko, and Haru, and Song, and all the lives Fire Lord Ozai has desecrated. For Zuko: _watch me now and know that the nature of a person can change._

Her father's warship is at the front and center of the formation, gilded and elegant. Her lightning is true and steadfast, striking the ship at mid-hull, and in the blinding instant before impact, she surmises that her father stands at its helm. She cannot see his expression from afar, but she imagines that he looks shocked, thrown off his game by her confronting him so brazenly.

The joy of death swells in her throat, courses through her veins, elates her like strong wine before its paralyzing stupor. It is not time for her to die yet. Out of the explosive debris of the destroyed ship rises a supernova burning bright. The Fire Lord's ceremonial cape is cast aside; such empty titles have no place in this final Agni Kai. As he propels himself across the fathomless ocean towards her, he is only Ozai, the heartless father, and she Azula, the unprodigal daughter, meeting for one last time.

"You finally decided to crawl out of hiding, like the coward I didn't raise." His opening spiel is biting, cruel, amplified by the resonant canyons gracing their arena. "I should never have believed you to be the Avatar. I should never have sent for that colonial boy to come play at teaching you earthbending."

The remainder of the fleet continues in its trajectory, instructions specific: stop at nothing, like true Fire Nation soldiers. They will struggle on towards the very end, never giving up without a fight.

"What's this?" she mocks. "Could you be taking responsibility for your mistakes and the consequences of my upbringing?" _That's a first. _

"I am both mistake _and_ consequence." She hears his ominous smile in his voice and shudders. "You should have stayed **dead**."

She knows what happens next, but still, she is almost too slow to dodge the wave of fire that broaches the gap between them. It sends her straight off the edge of her tower; she only just manages to shield herself with a counterblast as she freefalls without end.

The comet smolders high above, burning a hole in the sky, and the intensity of Fire Lord Ozai's melee disarms her. This is fire and power like no one has ever wielded it: pure heat and searing light, enough to melt flesh and crack bones. Indomitable, insufferable… save for Azula's own.

_You are not the only one to draw your power from the comet, _she thinks viciously, righting her plummeting body in midair and flying towards a stable foothold. _Watch me._

A shockwave of blue fire brims from her outstretched hands, stopping him short, though he rallies almost immediately. White hot against cold blue, their flames ignite the comet's dusky fog, illuminating the arena for an absent audience.

It is not unlike the Agni Kai with Zuko atop the Northern Air Temple, and she rejoices that she's at least had some experience with aerial combat. Under the comet's power, they fly like dragons born anew, soaring between the pillars of Wulong Forest, hardly stopping to alight on solid footing for more than a heartbeat at a time. Up and down they race, from the peaks of the towers down to just skimming the waters below. They weave in and out of the stalagmites like a deadly maze, terminal velocities threatening to pulverize them against unforgiving stone at the turn of a corner. Azula forgets herself and laughs aloud with exhilaration, overcome by sheer emotion even as her enemy barrels down on her, a solid sheet of fire on the verge of singeing her hair off.

She twists and turns, evading his offense, sending back her own ropes of fire that spin devilishly through the air, sentient, longing to bring him down and grind his bones into dust. It is not so easy, though, and she starts to flag, months of suffering wearing her body down. She barely escapes the next wave, and her father does not fail to notice, malice spreading through his face as they come to a natural pause.

"Weak," he spits, his voice acidic and raging across the hellscape they have made of the forest. "You're weak, just like your brother, and your mother, and her grandfather, Avatar Roku. What folly it was to ever unite our families."

This news should be more shocking to her, but in her current state, all Azula can register is exhaustion and dismay. _Get up, _she tells herself. _Get up, Azula, you have to finish this. _

She rolls away from his next onslaught, cascading off the edge, too drained to make any attempt at elegance, and he seizes his opportunity. He does not bother to charge his next blast, instead sending fireballs her way in such quick succession that she can only duck and flee. The final blast knocks her just a little too hard into a cliff wall; she scrambles for a safe landing, dazed, hardly able to focus on him descending from on high, racing towards her. Lightning crackles through his frame, consuming him, and he prepares to strike—

_This isn't how I wanted things to end, _she thinks dimly. _But how often have I been given the choice? _

The air bleeds white around them, the atmosphere rippling with static charge, but in an instant, the bolt meant to end Azula coalesces into a dark figure that miraculously appears in front of her. One poised arm seizes the lightning like a feisty snake, sending it out via the opposite arm to illuminate the heavens in electrifying rapture.

She pushes herself up to sitting as she gazes at the silhouette in front of her. One hand remains raised skywards in a defiant salute, the gesture of a heroic savior come just in time.

AAA

**AANG**

He can't afford any distractions. Though Azula has destroyed the flagship, the rest of the fleet forges on, and Aang has to stop them before they torch most of the Earth Kingdom.

"Okay." He runs through Sokka's schematics in his mind, glad he committed them to memory. There's a hatch he has to bust through, easily managed by working a seam of air into the narrow crack between metal plates. Then down a ladder, dropping into the bowels of the ship. Still no resistance met—good. No alarms triggered, no need for anyone to come running, I'll just be in and out and on my way.

The airship is buoyed by an envelope, a reservoir of helium, a gas lighter than air. To the fore and aft of the main envelope are two ballonets of the same gaseous composition as the air outside. Normally, the airship's ascent and descent are driven by respectively venting out or pumping in more gas to the ballonets. However, Aang's instructions are to sink the ship by venting helium from the main envelope, which will result in a crash landing, too rapid for the crew to react other than by jumping ship.

"That's got to be it." In the tunnel-like crawl space just beneath the roof of the ship, he comes across an array of knobs and porthole covers that look to be welded shut. He casts one arm out, using his airbending to divine the presence of a vast reservoir beneath his feet, lighter than air.

He kneels down. No lid is ever a perfect seal—he traces around the edge of the porthole, trying to pull trails of the helium within up through any compromise in the metal. There are a few spots where he can feel the potential for a leak, and that's all he needs. Pulling the air up and up, compressing it against the door, he feels the strain of the metal as it creaks, warps, and finally yields.

A torrent of released gas swamps him, and only an airbender could stand firm against such an onslaught. A job perfectly done. He leaps out of the airship undetected, quickly sailing onto the next before they have a chance to sound the alarm. Time is of the essence here; once they're on their guard, it'll be more difficult for him.

AAA

He's on top of the fifth ship, about to break in, when a flare of lightning casts the sky in dreaded white light. The ships are still close enough to see the arena of Wulong Forest behind them, where Azula and Ozai now do battle.

_Oh no… _He freezes, breath baited, unable to look away as a sudden figure comes between the duo, the lightning striking him and then fleeing his body, redirected to the high heavens in a moment of blistering glory.

_Zuko?_

He's here, finally. Guru knows where he's been hiding all this time, but Aang can feel his presence again, soul-deep, outside of just seeing him with his own eyes from a distance. "Thank guru," he whispers, offering up his gratitude to whatever spirits protected Zuko during this fraught time. "He's back."

Every ounce of his body and soul longs to fly to Zuko's side, and Aang clenches his glider tightly in his fist_. I can't. Zuko and Azula together should be able to deal with Ozai. I've got to stay focused. Airships first, then Zuko. _

He shakes his head, looking away from the scene. _Stay safe, _he prays. It is all that he can do.

AAA

**ZUKO**

"You're alive?!"

"Obviously," he says, short and clipped. "Your friend Haru had a bit of spirit water that did the trick. I wouldn't care to repeat the experience, though."

He sees the guilt in her eyes and knows that he has read her correctly. She's not Princess Azula anymore, haughty and cruel. She's just Azula, his younger sister, and in this moment, his to defend.

"I didn't fancy getting stabbed by lightning again, so I learned to redirect it." He jabs a finger at the distant rock where their father is regrouping even now, preparing to unleash his wrath on not one, but two traitorous children.

"You redirected it—to the sky?" Azula's voice rises to unprecedented levels of incredulity. "Zuko, I knew you were stupid, but this is too much. Why didn't you just redirect it back at him and kill him with his own lightning?"

The anguished pause that stretches between them tells Azula all she needs to know. "Fine," she says curtly. "There are other ways we can do this."

She breaks off as they register Ozai powering his way over here like a blazing rocket, intent on destroying everything in its path.

"Fuck!"

Zuko and Azula leap apart, each taking to the skies in opposite directions. Ozai is deadly and domineering in his attack, bearing down on them like a god of calamity charging the skies with battle lust. Zuko soars through the open air with a sense of overwhelming urgency, yet oddly free. For reasons beyond him, he feels… liberated, enlivened, boundless. It's like gliding, or waterbending himself over graceless seas, miles and miles away from any hope of rescue. It's just him and Azula and their pure elemental power against Ozai's.

Tongues of flame tear up the sky. The three of them zoom uninhibited through the pillars of stone, unfettered beneath the comet's intoxicating power. It's more than that, though. Underneath that layer of enhanced, ingenious firebending, Zuko feels something more: a release of pressure, an opening of dams long stoppered—his chi flowing more vibrantly now, flushing his body with greater power and glory. _I think… it's the Avatar state. _He hasn't been able to use the Avatar state since Azula's lightning strike, but upon redirecting Ozai's lightning, he's felt a lightness in his chest, a lifting of a constraint that he hadn't even known was there.

He and Azula unite again, ropes of fire entwining to form a sinuous vine, blue and gold braided into one. It hurls itself at the Fire Lord, their wrath spilling over, bent on ending him. Despite its grandeur, it falls short, and Ozai splits the flame into scattered remnants with his own attack, ruthless and raw.

It becomes clear: they cannot defeat him like this. Back and forth they race between stoic pillars, spectators at the greatest Agni Kai ever held, and yet all they stand witness to is a pair of twins' failure to bring their maniacal father to justice, a family feud gone terribly wrong.

Zuko and Azula's skills are nothing to sneer at. They've trained for years with various masters, but all the techniques in the world fade in comparison with their father's pure malicious energy, the self-righteous conviction of the tyrant powering his attacks. No strategy can stand in the face of his undivided wrath. They split up, then regroup again, firing separately, then combining their forces into a conjoint stream of molten blasts—all futile. Fire Lord Ozai is swift and relentless in his retaliation, and they can do nothing but resist him for as long as possible.

Zuko loses track of time; has it been hours since they entered into this death match, or only a few minutes? It can't have been too long—there's no way they could keep up this level of intensity for an extended period. How much longer can they last?

At some point, his reflexes aren't quite fast enough to dodge the debris from an indiscriminate blast. A fist-sized stone clocks him on the temple, and the world gets very blurry and dark for a scant few seconds. He manages to reach a safe landing spot before toppling to the ground. _Shit, I'm done for—_he thinks dimly, right before a literal wall of blue fire erects itself in a wide swathe before him, deflecting Ozai's attack just in time.

Azula's wrath is by no means inferior to their father's, and he focuses enough to witness her in the throes of a massive breath of fire. This is no mere fire tantrum, snorting tiny, unrefined sparks from ears, nose, and throat like they did as children. Her stream is monumental, its white-hot core directed straight at their assailant, outer reaches mushrooming into a vast cloud of brilliant blue flame. It assaults all the senses, pure concussive waves of pressured air making Zuko's eardrums throb, accompanied by a raw shriek that echoes through the canyons, reverberating with bloody murder. Such is the fortitude of her attack that it gives their father pause, and he dismounts from his powerful self-propelled flight onto a distant pillar just beyond easy gaze.

"Spectacular," Zuko murmurs to himself, a little too dazed from the collision to keep a filter on.

"Save the compliments for when we're not on death's doorstep," she snaps. She seems almost diminished without the fiery maelstrom behind her anymore, crouching down to Zuko's level. "Zuko, this isn't working. We can't keep this up forever."

"I know," he says, exhausted beyond compare. "But what else can we do?" If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel a couple ribs that he broke from ramming into a wall too hard, not to mention several pulled muscles in his arms and back from sustaining much more firebending than his body is used to. He's not entirely sure, though; his nerves might be too tired to even register pain properly anymore. He expects Azula must be feeling similar aches and wounds, but she remains undaunted. She yanks him roughly close by the chin to drive her point home.

"Do you really think it's about _us _at this point? I came here because I thought you were dead and that the least I could do was avenge you. But then you showed up stupidly alive, and now we have a chance at winning not just this battle, but the war."

He has an inkling of where this is going, but it can't possibly work. It's hopeless on all fronts if he's being honest with himself. "Azula, I know what you mean, but—"

"Listen, this is bigger than the two of us and our doomed household," she interrupts virulently. "Or do I have to remind you that your friends and allies in the Earth Kingdom, not to mention my own, are still fighting for their homes and lives? All of that will be for nothing if the airships proceed with their massacre, if Ba Sing Se falls to their fire. They need some reprieve."

"And by that you suggest putting out the sun, which failed before."

"Haven't you learned? Never give up without a fight. You have to try again," she rages. "The whole world is depending on you,_ Avatar—_or do they call you Great Bridge for nothing?_" _

The Fire Lord's menace draws near, no doubt preparing to strike a death blow. They need to act now or be silenced forever.

"I'll protect you from him," she reassures Zuko. From her sleeve, she withdraws a pearl-handled dagger—Uncle Iroh's gift, and who knew that this talisman would see their joint struggles through to the very end? "Without our firebending, we'll be evenly matched."

He nods. This is the trust and fellowship that should have imbued their childhood, not senseless rivalry, pitted against each other by a heartless father. He seats himself back against the cliff wall, legs crossed in meditation, and prepares to enter the spirit world as Azula stands in front of him, dagger at the ready.

How the circumstances have changed. And yet, this feels so right. The two of them working together against a common enemy, united in wrath and vengeance. _We will have our just dues. _

ZZZ

The spirit world is much the same as he last saw it, once again goaded into it at Azula's bidding. But this time has to be different.

The comet's aura is palpable even here, the sky reflecting the bloodshed of this day and all the crimson lives that have yet to ascend the heavens if the tides of war continue untamed. There, high above, is the one who holds the answer to the world's woes.

Jinwu, the Sun guardian, the three-legged dragon-bird spirit, sails through the sky in a golden chariot. Its plumage is dusky and burnished bronze from the comet. Zuko cannot explain how he can discern the spirit's forbidding expression even at this distance—a conundrum unique to the spirit world. Still, he is here on a mission, and he must follow through.

"It's you again," Jinwu remarks emotionlessly as he soars to match the sun spirit's trajectory.

The last time Zuko had visited Jinwu, the sun had already set in the human world, and the sun spirit had been roosting in the craggy peaks of Mount Hai-Riyo. Now, it sallies forth in a massive chariot like a lightweight ship, translucent and shining. Long, elegant plumes like sails flutter in the wind, and Jinwu fixes an unfazed stare on Zuko, untouched by the violence escalating in the realms below.

"I know what you want, and my answer is still _no,_" Jinwu says with finality. "Spirits do not interfere with human matters."

"You have seen the desecration of the Fire Nation," Zuko begins. "You have seen how our arrogance and greed once laid low the moon spirit. We have brought the other three nations to their knees. Do you think that we will stop at the boundaries of this world? Do you think we will leave the spirits alone once we have conquered all the land we can occupy?"

He returns Jinwu's gaze, eye for eye, trying to match its sternness and immovability. He must sway the spirit, no matter what it takes. "Zhao the Moon-slayer failed, but more will follow his example. Lord Jinwu, will you be reviled as the one who stood by and did nothing to stop us?"

Jinwu is perceptive and knows that Sozin's comet marks the spirit world's sunset if it does not intervene. "You speak as if you are one of them, Avatar." _Desecrator._

He spreads his arms wide, resigned. "Am I not? Killing for my own gain, out of rage and hatred—no more than a youthful realization of my ancestors. For the world's sake, I am willing to propose a compromise, Lord Jinwu."

_You are the Avatar, the Great Bridge, _Azula charges him. _You have to do this._

Jinwu is implacable, and some Bridges must be burned.

"If you agree to halt the sun for me, thus saving the world from Sozin's comet, then I will agree to let you consume me, mind and body, soul and ether, until I am gone."

Jinwu stares at him, sharp eyes stock-still, brilliant plumage quivering in suspicion.

"There will be no more Avatar, no more bridge between spirits and humans. No one will ever be able to use me to gain access to the spirit world and endanger your realm," Zuko promises. "Your power will increase a thousand-fold, pure energy from my own spirit, and you will never have cause to fear the human world again."

"You do not know what you are promising," Jinwu says at last. It is the closest the guardian spirit has ever sounded to shaken.

"I do not," Zuko agrees. "I only know that you cannot refuse me."

This is something he has been pondering for some time now: what degree of sacrifice would be enough to redeem the entire world and all its hurts? How great of an exchange would it take to right all these wrongs? He has his answer now; it remains to be seen whether Jinwu thinks the same.

An eternity seems to pass between breaths, between the lonely billows of the mighty spirit's plumes, rose gold under the comet's glare.

"Very well. I accept your proposal."

Zuko bows his head as the dragon-bird descends from its perch. Its feathered mane, like the banners raised on a war chariot, droops and wilts as it rouses itself to abandon its post. Jinwu's entire unearthly gleam seems to dim, the darkling dusk yawning to meet them as they descend from the sky.

He can't quite put a finger on it, but he _feels _the moment the sun winks out of being, a visceral ache resonating deep within him, the loss of a crucial part of himself—his firebending, gone.

Jinwu approaches, magnificent and fearsome with the scarlet dusk at its back, bending down and peering at him closely. Zuko closes his eyes, preparing for the end.

_I'm sorry, Aang. _In this moment, he knows. Finally, he has managed to let go of Aang, of all his earthly attachments, giving himself up completely here at the end of all things. And now there is no more time.

Goodbye.

* * *

**A/N:** Cliffhanger! I warned you there would be :) Anyways, don't worry, the rest of the finale is all written out. Just need to do edits and write the chapter notes. The next chapter will be posted in one week. Thank you for reading! See writing notes here: archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/59125969


	16. Sozin's Comet Part 2: Hymn to the Fallen

**A/N**: Trigger warning for graphic depictions of violence. Ends on a pretty tight cliffhanger again, be warned.

* * *

**AANG**

Despite his confidence in Zuko and Azula, he can't help but worry, pausing on the roof of another ship to survey the landscape. The intermittent blasts of flame that had illuminated the craggy arena are now absent, and fear clings to him like his shadow. _What if Ozai somehow took them both out while I was mucking about with helium?_

The moment is shattered when a trapdoor in the roof pops open. "The intruder's here! Stop him!"

_Oh, fuck._ The other ships must have warned their comrades even as they sank to their oblivion. Aang whirls around just in time to deflect with a quick spin of his glider. Dodge, duck, return blast, cartwheel, circle around—their exchange of blows initiates a futile cycle, the firebender constantly attacking, the airbender ever evading. Perfect harmony, but not ideal for Aang, who needs to be getting a move on.

Afar in the corner of his eye, a huge fire blast blossoms, the resumption of Azula's blue flame to counter it, and the distraction is all his adversary needs to fire a particularly aggressive strike. The force of the air pressure knocks his glider from his hand and himself headfirst into a rigid column of metal affixed to the roof, hard enough that his sight flickers and his head spins. Flashes of bright and dark encroach farther and farther onto his visual field as he loses his footing and slips off the edge—

—falling—

—a distant bellow, sounds like an enraged sky bison—

—suddenly it's dark, so dark, what's happening—

And then, blessed silence.

AAA

**SOKKA**

Sokka's always believed that the muster before a great battle is an awesome spectacle. He'll never know for sure, because Master Piandao has them standing up here, watching the western arena from the sidelines on a nearby range, the Jade Hills.

"Our spies within the Fire army have confirmed that the plan is to send reinforcements against the eastern front, close to Lake Laogai," Piandao drones. "They know Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten once suffered a great defeat at that site, so they want us to believe they won't concentrate their efforts there, when in fact that will be their tour de force."

He frowns at Sokka, looking much as he did during their training whenever his pupil would present a particular harebrained response to his tutelage. "Say what is on your mind, Sokka."

It is a clear day; the Outer Wall is visible ten miles to the south. It is not difficult to imagine the melee already starting there. The enemy nears amid a rain of arrows. Some fall and do not rise; others step over their bodies and march on. The second wave commences: earthbenders launch sealed clay jugs full of oil into the air, arcing over the Outer Wall, smashing skulls and bursting open as they hit the ground, and more importantly, dousing the ranks of firebenders in flammable oil. They will set their bodies alight and consume themselves alive with their comet-enhanced bending, spelling their own deaths.

"Is this all there is to the art of war?" he blurts out, unable to refine his turbid thoughts any further. "Stand on a wall and theorize about wiping out enough of your enemy before they even engage? It's no better than fighting battles on paper."

Piandao raises an eyebrow, hand on his sword hilt tightening. Old men declare wars, but it is the young who must fight and die, no questions asked. Sokka knows, via Zuko, that young men have been scarred and shamed for asking questions less pointed than these.

"If we allow them to drive their chariots to the wall unchecked and only then react, will there not be more life lost ultimately? Slake their lust for warfare here, break their will to fight now, and pray that they surrender sooner rather than later," Piandao counters.

"Break down our strategy for me, Sokka. To see victory only when it is within the ken of the common herd is not the acme of excellence. You must be able to see past all plots and decoys to divine the truth."

SSS

_The Fire Nation's lavabenders are few but heavily protected. Their advances bring them within striking distance of the wall, and from there, the only way to go is down. _

"The wall comes down, they flood in, and their forces are choked at the bottleneck of the hole in the wall. Our side has retreated slightly in preparation for open battle in the zone between the walls, and from a distance, we detonate huge amounts of explosives hidden in the Outer Wall for this very purpose."

_The explosion flings stone and bodies sky-high like missiles. Vast swathes of firebending battalions fall, crushed under the tons of wall crumbling around them, further slowing their advance and sowing chaos. Their ranks are broken as they swell into the open field, disorganized, unable to rally to a single focus of attack. _

"The enemy has broken in, but they've suffered heavy losses. They send signals to their allies on the eastern front indicating such, and this is the moment in which we divide and conquer."

"General Mung is inexperienced and unskilled, having been transferred from the home guard to the front lines only recently." Piandao speaks with disdain of his former colleague, and Sokka nods, having been acquainted with Mung and his less-than-admirable comportment at the Painted Lady's village. "He longs for recognition and accomplishment and chafes under the direction of General Mongke, who has more experience in the field."

_The distance between the two fronts of battle spans some ten miles, close enough for reinforcements from the east to hasten hence in a timely fashion. There is no doubt as to who will come running when General Bujing sends up the signal for aid, bringing half of the eastern regiment's forces with him and ignoring the original plan for a concerted effort at the Inner Wall._

"We received Lu Ten's signal forty minutes ago that the eastern edge of the Outer Wall had fallen," Sokka recounts. "General Bujing signaled for aid twenty minutes ago, so now… we watch and wait. We wait for Mung to come charging over and fall into our trap. We wait for Bujing to realize that help is not coming and to make a last-ditch forge for the city. By that time, our disciplined ranks will have come around to his backside, sandwiching him between us and our earthbenders at the Inner Wall."

_Bujing's forces are trapped in the tiger's mouth. He himself does not partake in the battle, staying instead at the back of the ranks in one of the tall watch posts that dot the agricultural zone. He can only watch, giving ever more indecisive orders, as his men struggle against forces they were told would be easy to defeat. _

SSS

Piandao unsheathes his sword, not in defense against any imminent danger. Rather, he holds it out horizontally in front of Sokka.

"The balance of our victory or defeat is delicate." He lays the blade down perpendicular to the side of his outstretched hand. About a palm's breadth above the hilt, it rests on its balance point, falling to neither side, remaining in equilibrium.

"Our victory is not secure. If it were, I would let you go. But our defeat is not assured either. Though the Fire Nation is strong, we are not without our strengths as well. If all was to be lost, why not let you go and delight in the fray until it takes you?"

Sokka shivers at the opaqueness of his tone, reminiscent of some storied past. He wonders if Master Piandao is thinking of times when he was in battle, finding joy in war making, and what that looked like before he deserted.

"So you see, I have no choice but to keep you here, because I have hope that this battle will end in our favor. I do not know precisely how much," Piandao muses. "No matter what, you must survive this war. There are future generations of the White Lotus to think of." He sheathes his sword decisively and resumes his soulful vigil over the battlefield.

Sokka has no argument to counter that, but it still sits uneasily with him. "It hardly seems just, for me to live and so many others to die." He delicately sidesteps saying 'us' instead of 'me' out of respect for his master, but Piandao knows.

Far beneath them, the Fire army turns in restless circles as their adversaries surround them. A messenger trots up the slope to where they stand with updated news, and Piandao sends him off with further instructions to rendezvous with the eastern forces.

"The world is awash with innumerable miseries. Justice is not predicated on how long one man can live for. Sometimes life is its own just deserts, and death the final reprieve."

"But why me?" Sokka tries again, a little desperate. He was raised in the tradition of the Southern Water Tribe, where all warriors were brothers and shared life and death, joy and tragedy equally.

"It's not about you, Sokka," Piandao says brusquely. "It's about what you can do when the flames cool and the blood stops flowing. The war does not end here."

SSS

**LU TEN**

The Outer Wall has fallen; Generals Mongke and Mung and their ilk trickle in. Lu Ten awaits their charge from a distance, but they are not to withstand this assault either. Instead, they must put up enough of a pretense of resisting while enabling the majority of the infiltrators to reach the Inner Wall. There, they will face the Earthen army that defends the city proper.

Lu Ten estimates that they do not have enough lavabenders left to initiate a full-blown breakdown of the wall. If the timing is right, half of their forces should be diverted west soon enough. With the sundering of their regiments, neither front will have sufficient resources to break through the Inner Wall. Trapped inside a circuit of their own making, they will founder and fail.

_But not before we have lost too many of our own._

"Soldiers of sundry nations, hearken to me! Your actions today will fill the annals of history to come. Your blood will water the fertile fields of your families' futures. Today, more than ever, you have the chance to decide your own victory."

"_Who will fight with me?_"

The wordless cry of thousands of hallowed voices, a choir of gleaming armor and polished steel. In the distance, the gap created by the lavabenders hemorrhages invaders, flowing into the enclosed space behind the wall. It is like a noxious spinneret, sowing silken strands, long lines of enemy soldiers that must be cut down or they will form a tangled web to trap the White Lotus' forces. There is no middle ground in war.

The enemy approaches. Their fate dawns. The moment is now.

He has missed this; he has forgotten how he missed this. Despite the invariable bloody wounds, despite the funeral pyres ever mounted high, he has missed the joy of battle, of the song of his swords and the elated ululation of strokes of flame dancing along their edges. It's strange yet familiar, how utterly at home he feels on the battlefield that sheltered him for three long years. He drives a spear of resistance through the advancing enemy forces, scattering them right and left in shivering chaos.

It is like a trance that descends over him as he throws himself into the midst of the battle. He forgets that he is here among forged blades and riven armor. The clash of steel, an endless stream, becomes as the whine of cicadas to him, constant, benign background noise amid a peaceful forest. Every blast of fire he fields is like a bird in flight, dissipating cheerfully before it can harm him. He is _invincible._

LLL

**HARU**

He watches, Toph at his side, as the fireworks from the eastern front fade, telling them that General Mung's division are approaching their location rapidly. The last hour or so has been a complex interplay of forces from multiple sides, and they as earthbenders are hinged on the crux of a daring strategy.

"Once the drummers get going, they'll be six feet under," he remarks.

"Figure of speech," she corrects him. "Make that sixty feet under."

If nothing else, the White Lotus has truly worked miracles in its capacity to bring far-flung peoples together, united in a common cause. Toph is an earthbending master who learned her art from badgermoles. The people of the northwestern village of Shouxiang happen to have brought a couple of badgermoles with them. And Haru and the earthbenders of Meikuang have unparalleled expertise in the construction and maintenance of deep, underground mining tunnels. There is no missing the irony of the fact that the Fire Nation, who forced his people to hone their skills to a fine point during their occupation, will now suffer the consequences.

The drums are set up on either side of a wide valley that General Mung and his forces must ride through to join General Bujing far to the west. Fifty on each side, each one taller than a man, round and broad, spaced at five-foot intervals.

Mung will expect an ambush, but from above, not below, so they have prepared one to satisfy his sense of security. As the charging rhinos approach, bellowing thunder and snorting lightning, the soldiers stationed on each wall attack: arrows true and quick, sharp and deadly blasts of fire from those deserters that joined the White Lotus' ranks. Two thousand enemy soldiers ride through the thicket of long-distance attacks; fewer than two thousand make it out. The survivors ride on, confident that they will not face further resistance.

"General Mung does have some lightning in him," Toph recalls. "We encountered him in a village back in the Fire Nation once. He's a nasty one, that's for sure."

"Hm." Haru's not impressed. "I bet I've seen worse lightning in my time. Probably nothing to be worried about."

A lone horn echoes over the walls: the signal for the drummers to unveil their scheme. Toph and Haru stand on the parapets of the Inner Wall. Surrounding them are members of Ba Sing Se's Earthbending guard and members of the Dai Li. They are at the point of where the two walls are most closely apposed to each other, and the drummers closest to the Outer Wall are visible to Haru even from here.

"You miss her, don't you? You wish she were here to see all this go down."

…_what. _

"Toph," he begins tightly, "I know you feel very confident about this battle's outcome, but the truth is we do not have time for distractions and falsehoods _at this moment—"_

"Oh stop, I know you're lying." The drumbeats almost drown her voice out now, steadily rising in volume. "Your heartbeat is giving me a headache, don't bother."

The drums are pounding, each earthbender alternately striking their drum and then the ground in furious consecution, generating a frenetic, enlivening rhythm. Haru finds his heart rising to meet that frantic beat; it's nothing to do with how he feels about Azula. This is… not the time and place.

Mung is within sight now, riding at breakneck speed, not stopping to wonder why two rows of battle drummers are beating a call with no defending forces to heed their cry. He rides into the trap, and as the bulk of his forces are situated between the long lines of drums, the earth beneath him begins to crumble and implode.

Haru and his father had spent the weeks leading up to the day of Sozin's comet largely underground plumbing the depths of ancient tunnels between the walls, some of them collapsed long ago. The badgermoles had helped them excavate new passageways winding far beneath the surface, backed up by the expertise of Toph and all the White Lotus' best earthbenders. The result was a complex system of tunnels so well-constructed that the ground above them could hold up—for a time. Under the combined weight of scores of warriors on rhino-back and the relentless assault of the war drums, the roofs of the tunnels can only collapse in glorious downfall, burying the regiment alive.

It would be wrong to say that Haru looks away in discomfort, trying to sanitize his senses of the sound and sight of their enemies drowning in dust and rock. It would be expressly disingenuous to claim that Toph does not bear brazen testimony to General Mung's sorry end, kicking and screaming and choking on clay and sediment.

The earth that nourishes, the soil that brings life, that has been set alight time and time again, now smothers the flame that would burn it anew without mercy.

"For what it's worth," Toph resumes their conversation apropos of nothing, as if they had not just witnessed the massacre of an entire battalion, "I think Azula would be proud of you."

This is not a conversation he was expecting to have on the day of the end of the world. He wonders where Azula is, what she would think of their underhanded scheme, how she would have approached the strategy and won the day. He reminds himself that he no longer has the privilege to wonder anything about her. That bond has been severed like the stalk of a wilted peony flower under this ruthless sun.

HHH

**AZULA**

She watches, tense and ready, as the Fire Lord approaches, propelled through the air on distilled rage and flame. Zuko hasn't found the sun spirit yet, it seems. What's taking so long? Never mind, she'll defend him until the very last breath.

Ozai is impatient, longing to stamp them out for once and for all. He rears his head in midair, dragon-like, to direct his fiery breath across the atmosphere at them, consuming and mighty. Azula throws up a shield of blue flame to fend it off. He's close, too close, she can feel her eyeballs boiling—

And then it stops. The absence of flame, a paucity of light, a sudden laxity in her limbs as if she's fallen ill. A divine intervention, not a moment too soon. The sun stutters and winks out, the smoke clears, and only the comet's pale light is left to illuminate the day.

_He did it. _The sun is no more. She breathes a sigh of relief, approaching the cliff edge to see where their father has plummeted to his death.

Oh. Oh _no. _

Fire Lord Ozai's hair flies loose, topknot unsecured as he clings to the near-vertical wall. In one hand, he clutches the crown-pin, the Golden Flame of the Fire Nation, its sharp end buried in the rock, anchoring him to the cliff as he balances and tries to find a foothold.

_Gods absolve me, why can't he just die already? _

She scrambles to her feet—this is no time to panic. She hoists Zuko up under the arms and drags his limp body farther along the ledge, away from the threat. Fluttering about their vicinity, she locates a few fist-sized rocks, nothing larger, and she curses her luck. When she looks over again, Ozai's somehow managed to claw a path halfway up the cliff face: how? Punching holes in the wall to make handholds? Now he's close enough for her to see his expression: crazed, slavering, absolutely mad with fury, greed, and his own indefatigability. Hair a frightful forest, eyes like hot coals, and she longs to smother them.

She casts the rocks over the edge with all the force she possesses—futile. He shelters his face with one arm, missiles hitting him like droplets of rain.

_Fuck. Fuck! _

"You're not getting rid of me quite yet," he sneers, pulling himself over the edge like a terrible monster of children's stories. "Step aside now and I might let you live once I've killed your brother."

_Not a chance. _She settles into a defensive crouch, dagger in her right hand.

"So you have chosen death." He wastes no more words, advancing on her like a lion stalking its prey. Azula breathes deeply, body all coiled lightning, shrieking to be loosed, and strikes.

Hand-to-hand combat and weapons training were taught to her by her masters insofar as it benefitted her training in bending, and it sufficed to dispatch the bandits at Song's house. They were hardly worth the effort she expended, but with Fire Lord Ozai, she fears that nothing will be enough to overcome him.

_He trains as if he expects his imperial guards to be incompetent or absent, _she seethes. _Why couldn't he have been the kind of placid, bookish monarch who's totally uninterested in anything athletic? Like every Earth King ever. _

She hasn't been this close to her father in months, and certainly never on the receiving end of a purely physical attack. She stumbles amid a flurry of blows, dodging back and evading the fury of his fists. Her dagger lands a few glancing slashes, but Ozai is so fired up on adrenaline that they don't deter him at all. She is outclassed and out of cards to play.

_No. I can't give up. I can't let Zuko down. _

Determined, she seizes the opportunity and his bulging forearm raised to strike, volleying herself up to rest, knees astride his shoulders, in perfect position to yank his head back and slit his throat—only to be dumped unceremoniously on her head as he drops backwards into a perfect bridge form.

Dazed, she scrabbles for her dagger, cut short as Ozai twists and drags her upright by the throat. She kicks out at him, attacks totally unheeded, and he slams her against the wall with one hand, feet dangling well above the ground.

"This ends _now," _he snarls.

She can't breathe through his chokehold, vision spattered with dark spots, a roaring rush of blood in her ears blocking out all other sounds. She cannot even cry out in pain as he pulls his steely fist back and punches her, once, twice, over and over and over in the ribcage, right over her heart.

Bone meets bone, and her ribs yield. She feels more than hears them crack. He doesn't stop. A wet sound as fist strikes hollow, and finally, he lets her drop to the ground, limp and immobile.

_Hurts… so much…_

She has no strength to even turn and watch him, but in her peripheral vision, she sees him going for the little alcove where Zuko's stashed, nothing standing between him and the Avatar. _One last rally, _she promises herself. _One last hurrah, and then you can rest. _

With some unknown hidden reserve, she hauls herself upright, one hand brushing against cold steel, her discarded dagger. Desperately, she flings herself across the ground, clinging to his legs like a dying dog, and slashes the blade across the fabric of his thigh before collapsing.

Fire Lord Ozai roars in pain, a reaction at last, but through the mighty gash she's inflicted, it's clear that she's only hit a vein. He won't bleed out fast enough, not before he reaches Zuko.

_I'm so tired…_

She registers the feeling of pain vaguely, detached as he kicks her aside, the world darkening until she cannot tell if her eyes are open or not.

_I'm sorry, Zuko._

AAA

**IROH**

In all his years at war, Iroh has never actually had the chance to share the battlefield with his son, instead receiving reports of his victories and hearsay of his fearsome prowess from subordinates. Today, he finally witnesses Lu Ten in action, and what a grandiose show it is.

He is power incarnate and agility embodied, flying high and striking low without an ounce of hesitation. Many who fall in his wake surely do not even know what hit them, and Iroh can only track his progress because he levitates on a column of fire high above, observing the battlefield from a bird's-eye point of view.

Despite his infernal glory, he remains cognizant of the big picture, and Iroh marvels as multiple arms of Lu Ten's forces sweep seamlessly around the enemy, his commands passed down via his various lieutenants. Before long, they have altered their positions to close in behind Mongke as he plows furiously toward the wall, where the Earthen guard lines its heights under the leadership of Generals How and Ai. Mongke is surrounded, and Mung's command has already broken off, doomed to sunder itself in the tunnel traps laid by the White Lotus' earthbending contingents.

_We are still not beyond defeat, _Iroh reminds himself. _Not until the last man lays down his arms can we call our victory._

He may as well speed that moment along. The Dragon of the West descends in defense of the city he once sieged.

III

He catches up to his son just beyond the shadow of the Inner Wall, reining his rhino in to trot mildly alongside Lu Ten, who has resumed his steed as well.

"General Iroh," Lu Ten greets, ever respecting their roles and divisions amid times of war. Iroh ignores these, unable to forget those long years where he had no one to call his son.

"You do me proud, my son."

Lu Ten shakes his head, catching his breath as they pause together beyond the chaos of the battle. "Your men do you proud," he corrects him. "Staunch hearts bleed hale wine. Though so many have fallen, those who remain rouse themselves to arms still more vigorously."

"Indeed." Six hours have passed since dawn and the beginning of the bloodshed. The comet will persist for six more hours, and whether the White Lotus can survive this crucial period will determine the fate of Ba Sing Se. "'They were more than brave: they were possessed by martial spirit, / Steadfast to the end, they could not be daunted,'" Iroh recites in an elegy to the dead.

"'Their bodies were stricken, but their souls have transcended, / Captains among the ghosts, heroes among the dead,'" Lu Ten finishes the couplet, rounding out Qu Yuan's _Hymn to the Fallen_. "Let us hope, though, that our cause will not follow the fate of that hero-poet's nation."

A strange feeling tingles through Iroh, something chilling that sets his hair on end. "I do not believe it will," he murmurs, unsure what this sense harbors as of yet. He has his suspicions, though, and he raises his eyes to the sky.

No eclipse is intended for today, and indeed, not for many years to come, yet the sky darkens, as if clouds pass before the sun, obscuring it. It is more than that, though—the sun is entirely absent from the heavenly vault.

Lu Ten follows his gaze, stricken in shock. "The sun… what's happening?"

They turn their attention to the sprawling chaos around them, and sure enough, every flame has winked out, every firebender staring at their hands, dumbfounded, their bending gone.

_Zuko… he succeeded! _

At last, this day can end.

III

**ZUKO**

It is done. He kneels before Jinwu, acutely aware of himself, his mortal spirit that quakes and shies away from its end. _Can't help that now. You promised._

"You meant it." Jinwu sounds surprised. "Avatars love to sacrifice the lives of others, but rarely their own, in my experience. You cannot lie. I know your heart is true and your spirit pure, which is why I do not want it."

Zuko looks up, and it is like looking at the sun that is no longer in the sky. "What do you mean?"

"Remember what you learned when last you were here, Avatar." Jinwu treads at the ground with one of its three clawed feet, and a vast, iridescent net illuminates itself. It spreads as far as the eye can see, like glass beads reflecting the universe.

Zuko touches a hand to one of its facets. "The jeweled net," he breathes.

It shows all. Even now, he can sense what's going on hundreds of miles away, at Ba Sing Se. The Fire army is in retreat, their bending gone, their courage flagging. The White Lotus is winning, all is going well. He turns his focus closer at hand, and his heart stutters. Azula, fighting their father alone. She can't hold out indefinitely. He needs to help her.

"There is a place in the spirit world for him," Jinwu says, cutting off his thoughts. Its eyes are jewel-red, cruel and cold. "He is the instigator of the world's pain, both human and spirit. Not you. I can drag him there and trap him in his own mind forever."

The Fog of Lost Souls. Zuko has seen it before. He shudders at the memory.

"To do so, I will need to join with you, to set foot in the human world and pull him into this one. This is not without risk to you, though."

The Avatar state. He remembers the handful of times he's merged with spirits—excruciating, scarring experiences that left him weak and trembling, and in Jinwu's case, comatose. As long as he cannot control the Avatar state, that is what will happen should he take up Jinwu's offer.

It's tempting, though. To rid the world of Ozai's scourge, not even a shred of memory left of his father… a clean, new start. He stands and faces the sunbird.

"Great Sun Spirit," he begins, but then a cloud flies across the sky, dusk descending over vermilion. _What fresh horror is this?_

"_Avatar." _An infernal sigh, another spirit wronged by one of Zuko's past lives. Another debt to be invoked. Koh coalesces into a hard, dark shell, part scorpion and part deepest fears of all humankind, old as creation itself. "You know why I am here."

The spirit's malevolence brings to mind the taste of volcanic ash contaminating a clear stream, bitter and gritty. Zuko feels his insides freeze and congeal like oozing blood. Koh's presence can signal no good.

"You compelled the sun spirit to your bidding, _human," _Koh spits. The segments of his body undulate in sequence as he coils, unending, around Zuko's paralyzed position. "You know what I said I would do if you pulled such a trick again."

"I had to, Koh," Zuko protests. "For the sake of the world."

"Not _my _world. And now you think to join with the sun spirit yourself to eliminate your enemy, as if spirits exist at your beck and call."

"Enough, Koh," Jinwu interrupts, its voice thunder and lightning. "You do not speak for all spirits. You have no power here. Begone!"

"Not here, but _there, _yes." His silken voice seems to permeate Zuko's soul, and as he menaces Zuko, memories flash before his eyes on the barren, desolate backdrop of the spirit world. Faces, so many faces, everyone that he has encountered throughout his lifetime. Koh riffles through them like sheaves of paper, examining every leaflet carefully.

"This one might do, but you've given him up, haven't you? How noble of you."

_Aang._

"This one…" Koh pauses. "Hm, but hers is already gone, no?"

His mother? Zuko gapes, uncomprehending.

"These could all suffice..." Faces upon faces blur past, and Zuko's heart pounds in his throat until the wheel of fate stops spinning—on Lu Ten's face. "Ah. This one seems most satisfactory."

_No!_

Jinwu looks impassively at Zuko. "You are almost out of time, Avatar." Through the jeweled net, Zuko senses Azula's collapse, their father's triumph. "You must choose. What will you give up?"

Lu Ten? Or the chance to avenge Lu Ten, himself, Azula, all the myriad breaths of stardust who lived and died by Ozai's hand?

_You must let them go, _Guru Pathik's words echo in his mind. _All your earthly attachments, all the things and people that tie you to this world. _

Both spirits wait, breaths baited, auras loaded with an odd feeling, almost greedy, coveting the Avatar's will, waiting to reshape the world. Waiting for him to choose.

_If I had to, I would give you up, too, _Aang once told him_. Only if it were the right thing to do, but__ I would. _

He and Aang have evolved to exist in tandem, with and without each other, letting go and circling back to each other at will. They are earthly attachments no more. But Zuko had not accounted for Lu Ten when he first summed up his many tethers to this world, mainly because he hadn't known Lu Ten was alive.

_What would Lu Ten do? _He falls back on his most basic role model, but that's no help. Lu Ten would have the same dilemma: let Zuko go, for the greater good, or cling to his selfish desires and protect his cousin from an unscrupulous spirit?

In the periphery of his consciousness, the spirit world blending his mind and his surroundings, Koh snarls with impatience, Jinwu beats the air with its vast wings, magnifying the tumultuous emotional currents around the three of them. A maelstrom of darkness crosses his heart. He has loved Lu Ten all his life; he will have the rest of his life to continue loving Lu Ten, dead or alive. He will not have a better chance to end the Fire Lord and empty his heart of darkness.

_Goodbye, Lu Ten. _

As soon as he verbalizes this thought in his mind, two things happen. First, Koh disappears, leaving behind only the singed smell of sulfur in the air. Second, Zuko collapses to his knees, the sudden jolt of elevated consciousness as his thought chakra bursts open, unleashing untold power.

The magnitude of this might is unimaginable. He is at the peak of the highest mountain, dancing up a celestial staircase. He has reached the pinnacle of the stars; he can pluck the moon from the sky if he so chooses. The power of the universe suffuses him, a radiant glow descending upon his skin, igniting his chi paths with rivers of pure cosmic energy.

His head pounds; he can hear one long, resonant note thrumming through his skull, but within it interlace hundreds upon thousands of brilliant harmonies. They are voices, humming low and thrilling high, coming from within him. They are many, but he stands alone before the sun spirit, trembling at the legion that threatens to burst the dam of his soul. They are all, but _**all is one, and one is all. **_

The Avatar state is his.

"Great Sun Spirit." His voice resounds with the timbres of scores of different Avatars throughout the ages. "I accept your offer."

ZZZ

**LU TEN**

It is done. Wherever he is now, Zuko must have won the sun spirit over, causing it to rescind the sun's power. Without the sun, even Sozin's comet can do no harm. Lu Ten himself is affected by this change as well, but the loss of his bending does not matter to him. His swords rest light and graceful in his hands, the only weapon he needs.

The disappearance of the sun has struck a heavy blow to the Fire army. Though there are nonbending infantrymen among them, their morale is low, and the disarmed firebenders are inept with the spears and swords they manage to pick up. Lu Ten recognizes that hubris: back when he commanded several firebending units in the 18th regiment, they too disdained nonbenders and only grudgingly accepted training in weaponry. They have learned nothing from their mistakes.

He stands with his father at an observation post built a quarter of the way up the Inner Wall, one of many such vantage points scattered along its surface. It overlooks a mild valley closed in by several long, sloping buttes, hardly more than a dimpling in the landscape. From here, they see the Fire army retreating, their commanders fleeing for their lives without solid instructions to their men.

"A shameful display." Iroh shakes his head gravely. "I thought General Bujing could maintain greater morale than that in the face of defeat, but apparently not."

"The men should not have to suffer for their superiors' lack of foresight," Lu Ten proposes. "Those who surrender peacefully should be spared. Let it not be said that the future Fire Lord is merciless even towards his own people."

The Fire Nation's forces are decimated beyond repair at this point. There is no meaning in continuing to scatter souls across the plains, sowing seeds of resentment on this battlefield and future ones. Iroh nods thoughtfully. "Very well." To Lu Zhao, he instructs, "Let the captured soldiers be held at our rendezvous point in the Jade Hills, to await further actions."

Lu Zhao hurries down the steps to the ground level where Iroh's retinue is gathered, sending a set of couriers to relay his orders to the commanders active in various arenas of these battlegrounds. Across the field, many soldiers are already beginning to survey the damage, searching for injured survivors to transport to the healing tents. Hanxin had asked permission to go down and help them, his presence at Lu Ten's side no longer needed now that their victory is secured.

Perhaps this was too hasty a decision, as Lu Ten turns his attention back to the scene. His heart leaps when he spies one enemy still charging unchallenged across the plains: General Mongke.

LLL

**HANXIN**

He and Chey have just finished getting another brace of injured soldiers to medical attention when the valley echoes with an unexpected alarum, a lone rider bellowing bloody murder as he charges towards the wall. Mongke's telltale ponytail whips back and forth as he rides hard, disrupting bands of huddled soldiers as he passes, infuriated at the Fire Nation's defeat and thirsting for vengeance.

Another ripple of shock blitzes through all bystanders, and the cause is apparent. Mongke's path is set to converge with another rider: Jet. He's managed to scrounge up a steed, but the Komodo rhino is crazed and feral from multiple wounds gashing its belly and hindquarters. It is out of control, so Jet does what seems logical to him: stand up on its back and take a running leap from the top of its head to propel himself through the air towards his enemy.

The Rough Rider is still a formidable foe even without his firebending, wielding a heavily spiked mace. Hanxin acts without thinking, unhitching the ostrich-horse from the cart he and Chey have been using for transport.

_Jet, no, _he thinks frantically in those few heartbeats that elapse as, faster than Hanxin's eyes can track, Mongke lashes out with his weapon, the ball and chain snapping violently until they connect with Jet's body arcing through the air.

The scene is awash with horror, bleached white and stained black. Hanxin's eyeballs burn with the stark image of Jet crumpled and suspended in the air for seemingly longer than possible. Everything slows, just like it did the first time he and Lu Ten met the young boy running for his life.

That time, he let go of Jet to save Lu Ten's life from an arrow fired by the Rough Riders' archer. It's been so long since he'd even thought of making amends for a split-second decision that changed the boy's life forever. He will not abandon Jet this time.

Mongke doesn't even seem to register his approach, focused as he is on Jet's unmoving body on the ground. Hanxin's left his sword back with the medics, his cumbersome kit weighing him down too much to facilitate dragging and lifting injured comrades. Just as well: he doubts he's strong enough to engage Mongke at close quarters, especially with that mace. Instead, he draws the dagger he keeps strapped to his right arm and throws it with his left hand, his aim as true as it's always been.

_It's because of your faith in yourself, your belief that you cannot fail, _Lu Ten had once told him, noticing his predilection for target practice. _Zuko is just the same, but I never quite got the hang of it. Master Piandao always said it was better not to throw your weapon away. _

Piandao was right to say so. Mongke's lightning-quick reflexes dodge the dagger aimed for his eye socket, leaving Hanxin defenseless_. _He glances around, scanning the ground for a discarded sword or spear to arm himself, but no luck. Mongke is already upon him, vilely pleased to encounter another old feud.

"You were part of his company, weren't you?" he sneers in recognition. "Defending that little runt; now look where it's got you."

All Hanxin can do now is try to trample the man to death with his ostrich-horse, but Mongke has other ideas. The ball and chain swing towards him, peerless in their capacity to maim flesh and smash bones, and the ostrich-horse's knees buckle, throwing him off.

_Fuck. _Heblinks up at the sky through mottled eyes_. This was not well-planned_.

"Aughh!" A sudden cry of agony snaps him out of his daze. Jet has stumbled to his feet, and the hook of one sword cleverly winds around the Rough Rider's ponytail, yanking his whole body headfirst away from Hanxin.

"This little runt," he spits, "is big enough to defend against you, you _animal." _

In that same adrenaline-fueled breath, he slams the man, at least twice his weight, to the ground. A quick slash, almost an afterthought, were it not for the force behind his sword arm, and Mongke rises no more.

_Jet… _He sways and reels, bracing himself weakly on his swords, and Hanxin scrambles to his side, enjoining him with a heavy hand on his back to _hurry up, sit down and rest for a bit before you keel over and rest forever. _He's avenged his village at last, but it will be in vain if he does not survive to tell the tale and carry on their legacy. His lips move, and Hanxin bends close to hear.

"Thank you," Jet whispers, voice edged with pain but somehow still brimming with the devilish cheer that's grown on Hanxin despite the shortness of their acquaintance. "He'd probably have wiped me off the face of the earth if you hadn't showed up."

_Idiot, _Hanxin reproves silently. Despite his remonstrance, he breathes a sigh of relief, resting a hand on Jet's shoulder, trying to soothe his labored breaths. Before long, Chey rides up with a handful of soldiers in tow, wary of General Mongke's menace. There is nothing to be feared there anymore.

_We made it. The day is secured. _

Before Hanxin has quite finished this optimistic thought, a sinister shadow dims the sky, and a chill runs down his spine. He gathers himself to his feet, searching for the source of this unease. In the sun's absence, the sky is lit only with the eerie glow of Sozin's comet, but around them, darkness descends, thick and close like fog. They are caged in a small enclave of a valley, the southern wall at their hind, enemies cut down or in ragged flight. What new terror awaits them as this mist clears, he does not know.

Instinctively, he looks back to where Iroh, Lu Ten, and the others are gathered near the wall. Fear clenches at his heart, constricting, choking, as he sees that the darkness is most concentrated there, the opaque mist coalescing into a horrific form.

It is something unearthly; no creature in this world inhabits such an unnatural form. A body like a scorpion, tail twining in spirals like wicked vines, but it appears to have faces all over itself, sprouting from its legs, strange tentacles of its body, and the fore of its trunk bears a white, mask-like face. Its presence is a paralytic; everyone ceases their activities, unable to do anything but stop and gaze upon this monster, its intent unknown, its very being poison to their souls. It is the stuff of nightmares.

_Nightmares…_

Oh no. No, it can't be.

With dread cloying his limbs, he tries to sprint back towards Lu Ten, but time is like quicksand, dragging him down. The creature's voice reaches his ears like a death sentence.

"I take my dues for the Avatar's transgression."

Even at this distance, Hanxin can see Lu Ten's face transfixed in horror, swords useless at his sides, as the creature bends over him.

_No—_

It all happens so quickly. A body slumps to the ground, swords clattering on packed earth. A pause, split by confused murmurs rising and ebbing until they crest in a revulsed tide. An anguished cry splits the air, bloody and raw as the iron that soaks the earth from today's bloodshed. A father's grief, rehearsed once before, now again in an unkind cycle.

Iroh sinks to his knees beside his son's body, Lu Zhao clutching his arm to steady him. About them gather the White Lotus, masters and foot soldiers alike, all standing aghast in a shuddering ring around the scene such that Hanxin can hardly see the body lying there. He slows to a walk, almost unable to force himself to go any farther, denial pulling at his feet. _No… _

The hateful mist dissipates at the edge of the valley, dark fog lingering unnaturally in the air. The creature has absconded with that which is most precious to him. Though they may celebrate a victory today, there will be no joy in it for Hanxin. Not without Lu Ten.

* * *

**A/N**: If you feel bulldozed after this chapter, that's normal; I felt this way when writing it as well. Oh my - is Azula going to be okay? Is Lu Ten going to be okay? Zuko why? Don't worry, all will be resolved soon! Next chapter to be posted in one week. Notes below, dealing with battle strategies and many decisions / departures from canon.

archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/60721486


	17. Sozin's Comet Part 3: The Spirit World

**A/N: **There are a number of songs that I chose as a soundtrack for this chapter, for you to listen at specific places in the text, but FFN is pretty hopeless at adding links, and I would hate for you, my reader, to lose the flow of your reading experience as you try to access the soundtrack. So if you don't want to listen, that's okay. But if you do, then I would suggest reading this chapter on AO3 (and on a computer browser) so that you can open the links in a new tab and listen while reading.

archiveofourown dot org /works/19811947/chapters/60732697

* * *

**ZUKO**

He opens his eyes—Jinwu's eyes, he notes, as the peaks and sharp lines of Wulong Forest stand out even more sharply than before, colors brighter and clearer from an avian perspective. Energy thrums through his body, its white-hot tinge running like molten gold through his veins, but this is nothing like any spirit that has possessed him before. It is not excruciating, but exhilarating, electrifying, and he rises to his feet, noting that he has three of them now, Jinwu's piercing claws giving him his footing.

The sunless sky stretches, bloodshot, over their heads, suffocating and surly. He looks down at the accursed human standing defiant before his glorious manifestation.

"Was it worth it?" he asks, voice resonating with a hundred years' worth of grief and agony, the pain of the world channeled through the sun spirit that saw it all happen. "Was it worth it, laying waste to the four nations and leaving your family tree in ruins? Your nephew, your own father, your wife, your children—did you sacrifice too much?"

Fire Lord Ozai laughs, a terrible, grating shriek, irreverent in the face of the massive, terrifying spirit staring him down. His eyes blaze golden with the reflection of Jinwu's aura, an unearthly hunger perfusing them, mad with selfish ambition and greed. He will not accept anything less than his own throne, set atop the highest place, overseeing the entire earth. But he shall not have it.

"I sacrificed nothing," he sneers, spitting the words out like seeds of venom and spite. "They were not worthy to see the glorious world I will inherit. _You _are not worthy to see the kingdom that will belong to me."

"The kingdom belongs to the people who live in it," Zuko says bluntly. "Without the people, wherefore the sovereign? Without the sacred islands, wherefore the Fire Lord?"

It is clear: everything his father is, he is not. Most importantly, Ozai's sheer self-confidence and conviction of superiority is the only thing holding him up now. Strip that away, and he has nothing, is nothing.

"Fire Lord Ozai, you and your forefathers have devastated the balance of this world, and now you shall pay the ultimate price."

Jinwu and Zuko approach as one, and to Ozai's credit, he actually tries to put up a fight, his stance overbearing and aggressive, but Jinwu's massive claw shoots out and seizes him at the waist. A beating of ethereal golden wings, swift and furious, and the physical world melts away like the cascade of a waterfall.

They are in a deep gorge, its edges wrapped in rolling fog and mist, the lip of the canyon too high above to even see from its nadir. There is no escape from this place: The Fog of Lost Souls.

"What… where am I? Where have you taken me?"

For the first time, Ozai sounds frightened, lost and unsure of himself. For once, he has a taste of his own medicine.

"Into your own mind." After all, what better company to pass eternity with than the worst memories the world has to offer?

Jinwu encircles Ozai in the cradle of its wings, feathers brushing his head, compacting visions and montages of this chaotic world into his mind. There are memories and scenes there that Zuko does not recognize, but Jinwu, the guardian of the sun, sees all. Nothing is hidden from its view; no one can claim falsehood before its discerning eyes.

_Villages burned, smoke rising in erratic tendrils like departed souls. Rivers of blood flowing down battle plains, choking off everything downstream with sanguine, ashen currents flowing to the sea. Not even she, the great ocean, is exempt from the devastation. _

_Famine running rampant through the lands, pollution consuming a river whole and poisoning the people living along its banks. Refugees crowding into cities already bursting at the seams; pestilence sweeping through the close quarters and claiming the lives of those who thought they had escaped the war. Bandits overrunning the people who have no choice but to remain in their defenseless villages._

_Death is everywhere, but death is not all there is. Significant absence cries out louder than any funeral dirge. The Air Temples standing uninhabited. Fire Nation music classes: sound without joy, noise without revelry. Waterbending all but eradicated from the South Pole—who among the kingdoms still knows the meaning of hope? Who still bears aloft a torch of faith and goodwill?_

"Many still do," Zuko-become-Jinwu intones, defiant, unwilling to let Fire Lord Ozai corrupt everything. "The White Lotus, Aang, Uncle Iroh… Lu Ten, whom despite your best efforts, _you didn't manage to kill_. You will not get the chance to take anything else from them.

"This is your legacy, Ozai," their twin voices enjoin. "Embrace it and stay here forever, or understand that you have much cause to feel remorse, and leave this place with the intent of reforming yourself. The choice is yours."

"No…" The reality of his situation begins to sink in like the permeating fog of the valley, pervading his sinuses, coiling in his mind: _there is no escape. _

"No… you can't trap me here! You won't defy me! I am the Fire Lord! I am the _**Fire Lord**_! No one can defy me!"

He will cling to that singular shred of his identity forever, Zuko knows this. It is not a lifeline, but a chain.

As they ascend from the Fog of Lost Souls, leaving Ozai behind, Jinwu looks skyward. The heavens remain cast in gaudy vermilion, like drops of blood diffusing through a bowl of water. The comet hovers high above, its menace still taunting and cruel, representing the doom of thousands of people at the hands of those who wield its power.

_I can put it out, _Jinwu says. _You need not live in fear of its return time and time again. _

"You can?" This is news to Zuko. "Why didn't you say so?"

_You did not ask. _

Of course. Spirits and their caprices. "You've already done so much for me," Zuko says, unsure of where the spirit's motivations lie. "Why would you do this too?"

_None of it is for you, _Jinwu says scornfully. _It is for the world. The comet upsets the world's balance. I see no reason to spare it. _

That is true. If Jinwu returns to his post now, allowing the sun to shine again, every firebender under the comet's glow will be able to access untold power once more. The jeweled net resonates with Zuko, inside and out, and he feels the deep grief of those gathered at Ba Sing Se, mourning Lu Ten. The Fire Nation's forces have been quelled, but strife will break out again if their powers are restored.

"As you wish, then." At the end of it all, it is one less thing for Zuko to deal with, and he has not the energy to even feel ashamed for being weary.

Jinwu leaches away from him, their bond no longer necessary, and he stands alone among the rivers and mountains of the spirit world, staring into the sky. The great dragon bird soars up, blotting out the comet with its wings. It circles the celestial body three times as if looking for a place to rest, and at the third revolution, it seems to implode on itself, sparks flying and falling to the ground, leaving the sky whole and unmarred in its absence.

The dragon bird melts into the distance, invisible to the naked eye but not intangible to Zuko's spirit, interconnected as he is to all things. It is time to go back to normal. He feels Jinwu resume the golden chariot, and finally, the sun shines once more.

* * *

**HANXIN**

The battlefield is frozen like a tableau. Iroh kneels there with his head bowed, eyes closed, unable to face the scene of grief before him once more. A hush has descended, a thickness in the air like the calm before a storm, except there can be no storm now. It has already passed, taking one with it. Calamity has struck, and Hanxin cannot remain in denial any longer.

He steels himself and looks down at Lu Ten's body, at where his face used to be, now a smooth, soulless expanse. He remembers that moment, a lifetime ago, when his love lay here on a field watered with blood outside these same city walls. But this time is not like that time.

This time, he will bring Lu Ten back alive.

Two soldiers bring a long red sheet, a flag emblazoned with the Fire Nation emblem, and lay it over the body. Hanxin stands aside, watching as the faceless body disappears from view, lending him the clarity of thought that he needs for what he must do.

He turns to look back at where Koh's gruesome form disappeared, taking with him Lu Ten's essence. An eerie condensation of fog close to the edge of the valley remains suspended in the air, like a portal to the underworld. It is a risky venture, but he has no choice. He has lost his love too many times already—no more. War and walls and oceans and memories have separated them for long enough. A vengeful spirit cannot prevail against their love. He takes a step forward.

He expects his footsteps to be heavy with dread, but instead, he feels lighter and more vital than he has in years. He will have this.

Iroh steps away from his son, shock plain in his face. "No, Hanxin." He places a hand on his shoulder. "You must not go. You'll only meet the same fate."

He stands tall and levels an even, expectant look at Iroh. _You will not stop me. _

Words unspoken pass between them, and Iroh understands.

"Koh is a fickle monster. Do not trust him; he will seek to trap you there too," Iroh cautions. "Above all, do not show any emotion in front of him, for he will use that energy to steal your face. You must be careful."

Hanxin nods.

HHH

It is as if he has stepped back in time to winter. The air is cold and stiff, biting at him without mercy. As his eyes acclimate to the dimness of whatever this place is, he sees a light twinkling in the distance. Wanting to investigate further, yet still leery of Koh's presence here, he maintains a blank forward stare as he approaches.

The light is an orb suspended in midair, pulsing like a heartbeat, its glow blue and radiant. It is beautiful, and Hanxin can't explain why he feels so drawn to it. He reaches for it, only to be interrupted by a chilling drawl behind him.

"Ah, ah, not so fast, my friend." Koh's threat stays his hand. He has a split second to rearrange his shocked expression into passivity before the massive, terrifying creature coils around to rest before him, staring right into his soul.

_Koh. _It's the creature that Katara spoke of, a grim steward of darkness that steals people's faces without regard for the lives he leaves torn apart behind him.

"It seems my reputation precedes me," Koh whispers, vilely pleased. His slithering tail rattles around them, claws like knives, aching to clutch and grasp and steal. "So you know of me and what I can do, yet you still chose to come here and challenge me. Such foolish courage…"

His thoughts have no place to hide, his mind bared to the elements of this strange setting. This must be what Iroh warned him about. His emotions become energy, every desire and thought crossing his mind to be shared freely through the atmosphere. He cannot allow his face to be stolen this way. He cannot leave here without retrieving Lu Ten.

"There he is." Koh gestures toward the blue orb with one claw. "Your life's love, is he not? What a beautiful soul, dearly loved by so many. The Avatar's love for him doomed him, though. Think you that yours can save him?"

_I must try. _He is speechless still, but it does not matter. The spirit world transmits his desires, his motivation.

"Humans," Koh sneers. "So beholden to your relationships with one another. Is it not easier to exist in solitude, with no bonds to drag you down constantly like this? You would never experience grief at the loss of a loved one if you had no loved ones to lose."

_That may be how you exist, Koh, but it is not for me. _

"I did not choose to be alone, singular and barren. My own mother cruelly banished me from her sight, thinking me rebellious and worthless. What mother would do that to her own child?"

Hanxin tenses, unsure what the spirit is getting at. However, he cannot be distracted from his mission. He steps forward again, not knowing what he intends to do. Seize the orb? Would that even work, intangible as it is? He would gladly take Lu Ten's soul into his own body, carry it safely away from here, but he does not know how to overcome Koh and his menace.

"So eager," Koh croons. "Fine. I'll indulge your attempt to reclaim your loved one. See if you like what I propose."

He pauses, waiting. What devilish game will Koh lay out before him? What damning conditions will he set, no doubt wanting to undermine Hanxin's attempt to save Lu Ten?

"You are a man of music, I hear." Lyrical strains echo through their surroundings, haunting melodies that Hanxin didn't realize he still remembered, and he hates that Koh is able to sift through his thoughts so easily and learn all he needs to know. "I'm something of an aficionado myself—I know what I like when I hear it. The question is: do you know what I like? Whether or not your Lu Ten leaves this place alive depends on it."

So this is Koh's challenge: move a monster to tears with nothing but the power of his music.

Little does this spirit of chaos know: Hanxin's song is not to be underestimated. He has won battles, conquered hearts, raised spirits, calmed souls with just a stirring melody and a few well-chosen words. This challenge is nothing to him… save for the fact that he has no voice, no instruments, no medium through which to physically express the sound of his music. He is defenseless, unarmed, utterly alone without his greatest weapon.

Koh regards him with a calculating eye, sly, grasping tendrils of thought nagging at Hanxin's consciousness. His miasma is so tangible, and Hanxin shudders at the feeling, careful to keep his outward expression neutral.

_In the spirit world, your emotions become your reality._

It occurs to him then that this is his answer.

There is a song on his lips, a melody at his fingertips waiting to be sung into motion. The spirit of the music takes him, and that emotional energy is just aching to be changed into something sensible, _audible._

_Listen._

Enter a strand of plucked strings, resonant in their solitude. Contemplative, transient, like the ripples of a foundling stream just springing into being, its currents striking poignant notes against time-smoothed stones. An elegiac echo, and they give way to Hanxin's voice.

_The wind wails a long dirge through hallowed halls _

_Recalling how the flames of war melted miles of ice_

_Slander and malice soared over vermilion walls_

_We took up arms, dreaming of hair white as fleece, _

_Our brotherhood was rooted in verses brilliant and warm_

_What had we to fear from the raging storm?_

His voice swells through that last verse, the storm building in his throat until it crests in resplendent uproar—

_A call to arms against the north, with every ounce of strength_

_Heroes wish for peaceful ends, choking down their desolate plight_

_Lay down your arms, cease all bloodshed, though fate remains opaque_

_Stirring clouds, calming waves, shooting stars set on a still night. _

He pours all his grief into his song, lamenting his love. He grieves the years Lu Ten lost to the war, fighting, struggling, hurting, a faithful servant to his people until treason brought him down, an unjust reward for his toils. Now he is once more sunk low by the vagaries of a cruel, unfeeling world, with none but Hanxin to supplicate on his behalf.

_The moon shines bright over the forested peaks_

_Horses stampede and banners billow under winter's horn_

_Vows made at world's end, hand in hand, we hesitate no more_

_And drink our fill of heady wine_

He can see in his mind's eye the peaks of the northern Earth Kingdom where they spent so many thankless months. He knows Koh sees them too, the spirit realm's amorphousness rendering the boundary between visual, auditory, and physical mediums all but moot. He can feel the chill wind, winter's horn as they marched together, hearts aligned, dreams entwined.

He feels drunk now, the burn of strong wine coursing through his voice, intoxicated by the sound of his music and the knowledge that he must prevail. No creature, human, or spirit, could withstand the depth of emotion that washes over his words.

_A call to arms against the north, with every ounce of strength_

_Heroes wish for peaceful ends, choking down their desolate plight_

_Lay down your arms, cease all bloodshed, though fate remains opaque_

_Stirring clouds, calming waves, shooting stars set on a still night. _

After everything they've been through, he's not going to give Lu Ten up like this. Amid his impassioned vocals, the stoic beat of a war drum starts up, accenting his phrases, lending them conviction and power. His song builds, surging, swelling, sustained… and finally breaks when he has given of himself all that he can give.

_May the flames of war be forgotten by all hereafter_

A blessing whispered over the souls of all who loved Lu Ten, who long for his return to the world he helped to sculpt for the better.

_Please_, he thinks, plain and simple supplication, no longer engorged with the overwhelming aura of his song. _Let him return to enjoy the world of peace that he always dreamed of. _

.

.

.

The silence stretches over the two of them, a seamless shroud stained dark as the grave. Koh's face is unreadable, bulbous eyes staring like glass, projecting Hanxin's own emotionless visage.

"Such a bond between your two souls," the spirit reflects, voice awed, disbelieving. "Many, like you, have sought to tear their beloved out of my grasp, thinking the power of their love to be strong enough. The Avatar himself, in a previous incarnation, tried and failed. Yet from the moment you let loose your song, your souls resonated, a harmony unparalleled by anything I have seen in either world."

Hanxin struggles to parse his intent without giving away his own expressions. Does this mean he has won Lu Ten's soul back?

At length, Koh sighs, defeated. "Very well. That which you desire… is yours."

His heart leaps, his ears ring with that redeeming pronunciation.

"But…"

_No._

"You may not lay eyes upon his face before you leave here."

He stares coolly at the scorpion-monster face, trying to read a shred of deceit therein. Why would Koh prohibit him from seeing Lu Ten's face first unless he means to swindle Hanxin?

"You have no choice but to trust me, as long as his soul is within my grasp." Koh's protuberant eyes droop in a bitter approximation of sadness. "No one has ever trusted me since I was born. No one has ever believed in my capacity for good will, neither human nor spirit. No one has ever given me a chance, not even my own mother. I wanted to help the humans. I wanted to give them useful and ingenious faces that would help them survive in the cold, dark world."

Koh's white visage blurs and fades, morphing into a blue mask with fearsome horns and fangs—the Blue Spirit, a denizen of deep water. "You foolish things, can't even breathe under water or swim deep enough to catch anything worth eating. I could have helped you."

The mask warps into the face of a blue-maned monkey. "Your eyesight and agility are terrible, not to mention your wit for the most part is vastly disappointing. What human wouldn't appreciate wearing the face of the Monkey King? Hm?"

Hanxin looks on, bewildered, as Koh resumes his normal face. "Ingrates, all of you, refusing my wonderful gifts, and what thanks did I get for it? I was cast out by my mother, stripped of my ability to create faces, left to rot in this dying world by myself!"

_So you lash out by stealing people's faces and forcing them to accompany you in this hell?_

Just like that, Koh deflates, the maelstrom of his fury dissipating with the outlandish faces he's conjured. Hanxin will hold him to his word. Koh is many things, but he is not a liar.

"Turn around and hold out your hand. Just like that, a little to your side." The instructions read like a banal recipe, but the stakes they yield are higher than any, and Hanxin does not like gambling. As loath as he is to turn his back on such a capricious creature, he obeys, facing the direction he came and extending his left hand, a fine tremor lacing his fingers.

There is no sound, not a crackle underfoot nor a soft intake of breath (Hanxin holds his) as one cold hand slips into his. He grasps it tightly like a lifeline, one to drag him from the depths of this nightmare into wakefulness.

"Go, and whatever you do, do not look back at his face until you have both crossed into the light," Koh tells him. "Otherwise, he will be bound here forever."

He does not sound as if this outcome is undesirable. Hanxin, however, has other plans.

Eyes firmly forward, heart in his hand, he steps up, his stride as resolute as the first one rising from Lu Ten's empty shell, rising to a pinnacle of righteous reclamation. Stairs appear before him, light and immaterial, leading to another plane that promises joy and redemption… if only he can make it out of here with Lu Ten.

They have faced all manner of obstacles to their love and overcome them. What is to be feared from one lonely spirit?

He takes another step, and slightly behind him, Lu Ten's seemingly weightless form follows, silent, nearly absent save for the hand clenched in his. Together, they ascend.

The stairs are steep and harsh, their tiers higher than the cost of every sunken soul Koh has ever stolen. Every step he takes seems to drag him back down, but he struggles on. He cannot leave Lu Ten behind.

They are almost there; he can taste the fresh air, feel the haze of the spirit world departing from his pores slowly. One more step and they will reach the sunlight, so close—

—light floods his eyes, blinding—

—his foot slips, he is falling, falling back—

—It is just like the first time he fell, fell in love, and just like that time, at least he will be able to look on his love one last time—

_Koh will be glad_

—and then one hand is over his eyes, one hand at his waist, steadying him, a long-awaited voice in his ear whispers, "Got you."

_Lu Ten._

How? He is saved, after all, relief washing through his blood like ambrosia, but _how?_

"Koh never said I couldn't _stop_ you from looking at me."

Indeed, he is blind like this, blindly in love, blindly trusting Lu Ten to save them both. He leans back, steady and stable in the arms of the one he loves.

_Your hands drench the world in salvation, love._

"I was afraid to say anything earlier, for fear that you would look back at me out of reflex. Promise me you won't look?"

He nods, the motion nudging Lu Ten's hand away from his eyes, tightly shut. Another hand remains loosely slung around his waist, his stance steady now, no longer in danger of toppling to their doom. He can almost sense Koh's malignant thirst behind them, desperately wishing for them to break his rules and be trapped there for eternity. He will not get his wish. Hanxin takes that hand in his once more and faces forward. A step, and another step, and every pace of the way brings him closer to the world of the living.

"I have to let go of you now, dearest," Lu Ten murmurs at his ear. "It's just for a moment, not long at all."

It is anguish, feeling that hand withdraw from his grasp, but he bears it. They are about to step into the light, and all this will be over. They will be able to begin together, anew, without anything or anyone to stop them.

"Go, Hanxin. I'll be waiting for you on the other side."

He goes.

HHH

The world above seems droll and drab compared with the effervescence of Lu Ten's presence just moments ago, as they stood on the brink of the spirit world and Koh's domain. The comet still tinges the sky in bloody dusk though it is only midafternoon at the latest. The forces of the White Lotus remain huddled in grave conference around a solitary red shroud.

Hanxin approaches as if walking through a dream, unsure if he will awake into blissful reality,

sinks to his knees beside Lu Ten's body,

reaches out one hand, fingers tensed to keep from trembling,

pulls back the red shroud slowly, painfully so,

tries not to think about how it resembles unveiling the bride in the marital chamber,

(perhaps another day, one day)

and looks upon the face of his love, eyes closed, whole and utterly _beautiful _

A collective gasp from those near enough to see, and Hanxin remembers to breathe as Lu Ten opens his eyes, focused, clear, without any trace of the horror he has endured. He looks up at Hanxin leaning over him and smiles.

"Hanxin… I heard you. I heard your voice, singing in the spirit world."

Tears spring to Hanxin's eyes with the uncontainable joy and catharsis of it all. Only now does it dawn on him how close they were to losing everything, and how much he risked to bring Lu Ten back, for himself, for his father, for Zuko, for everyone who loves him too (the entire world? Blasphemy to think otherwise).

Tears fall like raindrops on a newly bloomed face, dazzling as the gala of the fire lilies in summer's verdant youth. Lu Ten pushes himself up on one elbow, brushing the dewdrops from Hanxin's eyelashes with such finesse that he thinks his heart will burst.

"You saved me."

Tender words meant for his ears alone, like midnight caresses and the murmured whisper of the _erhu_. The sound swells in Hanxin's heart until the music seems to echo from the very heavens. Lu Ten pulls him into a dizzying kiss, unaware or uncaring of the world at their backs, and _oh, _this is nothing like the last kiss they shared on a battlefield turned into a floodplain of blood.

_Lu Ten. Lu Ten… _He cannot enunciate the things he wants to say, so he pours them into his lips and his eyes and his fingers digging tight into Lu Ten's back.

They are alive, and all is well.

* * *

**A/N**: This was another flagship chapter that was largely written even before much of _heaven need a sinner_ because I like to jump the gun on story arcs that I really want to write. I began writing the section unofficially known as "Hanxin's resolve" (just before he enters the spirit world) on 16 September 2018. Almost two years ago! At that time, I also wrote the part starting from Koh agreeing to let Lu Ten go, through the end of the chapter. Over the course of the next two years, I filled in all the gaps, and now you've finally seen the finished product! Omg!

I wrote a tiny bit of Jet reacting to Lu Ten's revival at the very end, but I decided not to include it because it was too angsty. You can read it in the notes linked here: archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/60732559

Notes also contain much chatter about the song that Hanxin sang to save his love, and other LuXin connections.

The next chapter will be posted in one week! Stay tuned!


	18. Sozin's Comet Part 4: Avatar Zuko

**A/N**: I'm not sure how to word this, but I guess… **warning for blood and partial nudity in the context of lifesaving emergency field surgery.** Idk how this could be misconstrued, but everyone needs insurance these days *fingers crossed*

This is it, everyone! We are at the end. Much excitement in this chapter, but also something resembling a resolution :3 More author's notes at the end to talk about the future of any other content in this series :D :D Let's get into it!

* * *

He opens his eyes and breathes in the smoky air mixed with the sharp tang of seawater. It's disconcerting to be back in his body, in the physical plane, and he stands uncertainly, looking around. The sun has resumed its place. Ozai is gone, physically dragged into the spirit world with no hope of return. The finality of his penalty pleases Zuko. If Ozai had just died, his torment would have ended then, but the Fog of Lost Souls will haunt him forever. He will never escape that place.

Something glints in the corner of his eye: his dagger, lying discarded on the ground. His stomach drops as he registers the outstretched hand that reaches for it, Azula's body lying there unstirring.

_No… _"Azula!" he cries, flinging himself to her side and rolling her over onto her back as gently as he can. "Azula!"

She does not respond, eyes closed, head lolling limply, pale as death. His shaking hands register the faintest pulse in her neck, weak and thready but still there, hanging by a thin strand. Her breaths are shallow, her muscle tone totally absent as she lies unconscious, and his own breaths hike and hitch as he struggles to determine where she's hurt.

The dagger is stained with blood, but there is no blood on the ground under her. The veins of her throat stand to attention, engorged despite the clinical picture she presents of frank hemorrhage, fast on the path to bleeding to death. He _needs _help, quick, but he's not going to find a healer within miles of this abandoned stretch of land.

_Help me, Katara, _he prays, laying a hand on Azula's neck, feeling the pressured flow of blood underneath. He consults his basic understanding of circulation. Veins go back to the heart, okay. He knows how the heart feels when it pumps blood, having been instructed by Katara in monitoring his own heart via bloodbending after his long convalescence. This doesn't feel right, though. He can sense the contours of her heart walls, blood filling the four chambers, but there's… blood _outside_ the heart as well, in a sac surrounding it, pushing on the muscle itself.

_Oh guru._ Katara warned him about this, how a rupture in the heart wall would allow blood to flow out into the enclosed surrounding space, accumulating and externally compressing the heart wall into immobility. In this state, death is only minutes away.

"_Fuck!" _Fuck, how he is he supposed to fix this? Water, _water, where's the water—_

—right under their feet. A hundred feet below the cliffs runs a wide river emptying into an estuary sluggishly flowing towards the sea. He almost trips over his own feet as he gathers Azula in his arms, picks up the dagger, and plunges right over the edge, firebending supplementing his deep dive.

He alights roughly on a rocky shore, without the grace to do anything but stumble into the water with Azula, falling to his knees, her head cradled in his lap so that she doesn't drown in the shallows. _Come on, Zuko, pull it together—you can't let her die! _

He hesitates over the fabric of her shirt, dagger in hand, but there is no time to care about modesty. With quick, sure slashes, he cuts through her shirt and exposes her chest. In one hand, he pulls up a generous bolus of water, and with the other, he probes and searches for where the blood is escaping from. He can feel several broken ribs under his touch, and fury blazes through him as he imagines how great a force Ozai must have exerted to brutalize her so. The fractured bone must have pierced right through her heart, and at last, he locates the site of the puncture, blood pulsing through the defect.

_Be healed, _he thinks as hard as he can, a blessing and a plea in one desperate cry. _Be whole again. _

The water glows brightly in response, but so does the surface of the sea around them, brilliant in the reflection of the Avatar state. Energy resonates down through his chi paths into Azula's own, the power channeled therein working to seal her wound off completely. He blinks as the light recedes, drained but not slumping over, weak or unconscious as he might have previously. _So this is what the Avatar state is capable of. _

The blood accumulated around her heart is still there, though; trapped in that tiny space, it will continue to choke off her heart, and there is only one place for it to go.

He reaches for the dagger, its thin blade sharp and piercing, and rinses the blood off its steel-bright surface. He cauterizes it with firebending, praying that this will work.

The first cut is the hardest. He watches, willing his hands not to shake, as blood wells up from the superficial gash, trickling down her skin, and he tries to ignore the voice screaming at him to stop, _are you crazy, you're going to make things worse. _These wounds are nothing compared to what has already been dealt to her. He will save Azula. He has to.

Another cut now, slowly lengthening and emboldening its depth, seeking to pierce straight through to the pocket of blood still crushing her heart. It seems like he's been here forever, hunched over Azula's body, trying to mend the enormity of all the hurts multiplied upon her. Minutes only, stretched in their tense momentum, but his back aches, his heart aches, his spirit shudders to think of what will happen should he fail.

A third cut, and there—there it is, the sudden outflow of blood brimming to the surface of her wound, and with steady hands, he draws it all out, enough to fill his two palms like a sanguine offering to some primal deity. Azula's sacrifice, blood literally on his hands. He lets it dissipate into the water, not keen to get hung-up on guilt and regret for her pain.

With more water, he heals the incisions in her chest wall and skin, dipping into the Avatar state once again to knit her ribs back together, careful not to menace her weakened heart.

"Nn…." A choked off gasp, a disoriented murmur. Her eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused until she looks up at his face. "Zuzu…?"

"Don't talk," he says abruptly, because if she says his name like that again he _will _cry. "Guru above, don't talk, you've lost so much blood. You're so weak that I'm afraid you'll flutter away into the ether if you so much as cough too hard."

Lying in cold water isn't ideal for post-op recovery. He drags himself to his feet drunkenly, running on the last dregs of his strength to carry Azula to a more hospitable stretch of the beach. He props her up, semi-recumbent, against a pile of driftwood. She's breathing easier already, lungs no longer congested with backed up blood. She's still pale but that's not surprising, given the shock and massive hemorrhage she's just experienced. They're out of danger, for now.

He looks around, something catching his eye a few yards down the beach. It's a long cape of deep scarlet, luxuriously soft and smooth, its hem embroidered with the imperial flame. Fire Lord Ozai must have shed his outer garment before flying to meet Azula in the battle of the skies.

Zuko pauses, but then wonders why he bothers. Their father is gone; his erstwhile material possessions have no power over them. Without him, it is just a very fancy blanket.

"Here." He hastens back to Azula's side. She shivers and hunches over on herself as he drapes it over her shoulders, securing it around her upper body and burying her thoroughly in its folds. "This will keep you warm."

"Zuko…" Her voice is still very weak, almost imperceptible despite how close he hovers beside her. "Where… where is he?"

He smiles, the first real, uncensored joy he's felt since parting ways with Aang before going to Pohuai.

"He's gone. I sealed him in an inescapable prison in the spirit world, the Fog of Lost Souls."

.

He holds her gaze, willing his words to impart the truth of their new reality.

.

"_He will never hurt us again._"

.

A cessation of breath, her respirations still painfully weak; a widening of eyes lidded with fatigue. Her lips tremble, reforming the words that he just spoke unto her: a prophecy; a rejoicing; a damning, blessing hurrah to the first day of the rest of their lives.

A dam bursts, a heart yields up years of grief and pain, released in a single, cathartic moment, and Azula weeps as Zuko has never seen before. She's always been poised, perfectly staid and emotionless, but now…

Now there is no Fire Lord Ozai to stand between them, forcing them to compete for his favor rather than work together harmoniously as they should have from the start. He encircles Azula in his arms, holding her as she shakes through sobs of joyful anguish, a childhood of fear and hatred washed away with her tears.

"It's okay. He's gone now. Everything's okay now…" He murmurs gentle nonsense in her ears, knowing that she needs the reassurance. "We're going to be okay."

"Zuzu…" Their childhood nickname strikes a chord in him, and he remembers the days before their firebending training began and their paths began to diverge.

"You did what I couldn't do. You ended him." There is no judgment in her words, nor jealousy, just a sort of hushed awe as she looks up at him with bleary eyes almost too weak to stay open.

"I had to, 'Zula. There's no coming back from what he did to us," he says tiredly. "Other people may not see it that way, though."

"Oh, no, no, don't be like that." Her breath catches from the exertion, wounds still causing her pain. She struggles to sit up more stably, clutching his side for support.

"Listen, Zuko," she says fiercely. "I know you're already headed down that path of self-doubt because he ingrained it into you. But you did the right thing, and what's more, I don't think you did as you chose because it was the right thing to do. Rather, it was the right thing to do because _you _did it."

"'Zula…" he begins, not sure he likes where this is going.

"Shhh, I'm talking," she shushes him. "Look, you could have made many different decisions. You could have killed him. You could have put him in jail forever. You could have… banished him to a cannibal commune in the Si Wong Desert."

"I could've taken away his firebending," Zuko proposes.

She stares at him, too exhausted to even show surprise. "Yes, because apparently you can do that too."

"Theoretically. A lion-turtle showed me how, but I don't know if I could actually do it."

"My point is," she continues laboriously, "someone always would've taken issue with your decision, no matter what it was. If you'd killed him, people would say, 'Look at that power-hungry usurper, killing his own father for the throne.' If you put him in jail, his supporters might have broken him out or at least painted him as a martyr, the face of a glorious counterrevolution. Whatever you choose, you can't please everyone. You can't be unanimously right."

"So what, I just choose something and insist that I'm right?"

"You choose, and you stand by your decision, and you regret nothing," she says fiercely. She slumps down, this small exertion of a speech having winded her. "This goes for anyone, not just you. _I _chose you, and I haven't regretted it. I'm not ashamed to follow you."

It's so strange, admitting that Azula's right. He's glad that she's here to set the record straight.

"You've made your point; now will you please stop talking? You look like you don't even have the energy to last until help arrives."

"Help's already here," she mumbles, head slipping onto his shoulder, her body awkwardly curled to his side. "You saved me, Zuko."

Then, very faintly: "I love you."

Tears gather in his right eye, asymmetric as they've been since Ozai burned out the glands of his left.

"I love you too."

* * *

Aang arrives on Appa's back, having devoted himself to the task of dismantling the airship fleet. Zuko vaguely wonders if that would even have been necessary if he'd had the gall to negotiate with the sun spirit earlier and put out their source of flame.

"Zuko!"

He rouses a smile for his love, having been on the verge of nodding off over Azula as well.

"Nice work with the airships. I'm sorry I was so late."

"I saw Azula arrive first, then you came along, and that lightning redirection? Fantastic. Incandescent." He shakes his head, marveling.

"Please." Zuko holds up a hand to curtail the flood of praise. "Compliments later. We're two steps away from death by pure exhaustion."

They bundle Azula into the saddle bed, and Aang takes off with a light yip-yip to Appa. The cerulean skies blanket their flight, no longer stained red with the comet's passing. The sun shines down mildly, and he closes his eyes against the breeze that ruffles his hair. It turned out to be a beautiful day after all. Zuko huddles a little closer to Azula, who's drifting back into somnolence, too worn out from the battle.

Once they're settled in the air, Aang secures the reins and lets Appa cruise at a comfortable height, taking a direct path towards their destination, which Zuko guesses is Ba Sing Se. It's oddly difficult to be concerned with what the future holds when he's so concentrated on living in the present and processing the very recent past.

Aang shuffles over to Zuko, scooting up to his free shoulder and cuddling close. "Is it over?" he asks.

"You said it yourself," he reminds Aang, of words spoken over a calm ocean just like this. "It's only just begun."

.

.

It begins with reunions. As soon as he's hustled Azula away to the healing tents and Katara's care when they arrive at the White Lotus camp, he goes to General Iroh's tent. There, he finds everyone in conference about what must be done immediately, in the short term, and the long term to recover from the battle. Lu Ten has hardly a split second to recognize his cousin's war-weary face before he is engulfed in a desperate hug, a shuddering entreaty whispered in his ear.

"I'm so sorry… I had to. _I'm sorry."_

Lu Ten shakes his head, arms wrapped around his quaking form, stroking his back gently. His shoulder is damp from Zuko's tears as they disengage, and despite the joy of their reunion, Zuko's face remains stoic and grave as he turns to Hanxin.

He's injured, Lu Ten can tell from the way he holds his torso stiffly and accepts Aang's help as he sinks to his knees. He does not falter despite his wounds, and Hanxin looks on, eyes wide, as Zuko brings his arms out in front, hands joined in the ritual salute, and bends his aching body into the deepest bow, forehead pressed to the ground.

Everyone in the room knows that this goes well beyond the realm of paying ordinary respects. This depth of bow is typically reserved for the Fire Lord, or one's elders… or someone to whom one owes a life debt.

Hanxin does not flutter to raise him from the ground, refusing to diminish the solemnity of Zuko's intention. This motion reveals the extent of Zuko's gratitude and respect for him, but it is also for all those present to witness the depth of his regard for Hanxin, as Lu Ten's inseparable partner. Let no one ever question the validity of Hanxin's presence at his side. Lu Ten feels a warm rush of tenderness at his cousin's soulful gesture.

.

.

It begins with healing. Despite Zuko and Katara's efforts, Azula's heart remains too weak to do anything but keep her in bed for upwards of a week, propped up on several pillows to ease the strain on her breathing. Zuko is in slightly better shape, but not by much ("You'd be better now if you'd taken the time to heal yourself right after the battle," Aang reproves. "…yeah, I had other priorities."). Katara attends to them with only slightly better bedside manner, and Azula gets the same schooling in bloodbending that Zuko sat through months ago, scared stiff at the thought of tiny clots forming in the heart and floating away to wreak havoc in the rest of the body.

The White Lotus have lost about a third of their forces, and of those that survive, at least half have suffered some injury. The most severely injured are moved to infirmaries within the city for more intensive care, while the rest remain camped outside the Inner Wall. The work of the aftermath is endless: reconstructing the Outer Wall, repairing the damage to the Agrarian Zone, tabulating the dead and laying them to rest, organizing compensation for their families, and such. It is grueling and backbreaking, but it is better than the alternative.

It begins with reclamation. Soon after Zuko confirms Ozai's downfall, General Iroh sets out for the Fire Nation capital to put the chaos there to rest. The few White Lotus informants still in the Fire Nation report that the capital has been seized by militant regional authorities, but Iroh is confident that he will be able to restore peace and smoothly resume the throne. Lu Ten stays behind in Ba Sing Se to help facilitate the city's recovery. There is much change that must be effected.

It begins with reform. First, they have to catch the Earth King up on… oh, everything that's happened with the war in the past hundred years. Suffice to say, he does not take it well when Lu Ten explains that his country is in shambles after the numerous attacks, colonization, and generalized destruction by the Fire Nation for a century. Only the copious application of smelling salts and Toph's quick conversion of his gold throne into a fainting couch prevent them from having to deal with a distressed monarch spilled all over the floor.

"This is too improbable," Earth King Kuei babbles when he comes to. "I can't deal with this—I, I have cultural edicts to attend to! I need to go review—"

"Your Majesty, I'm sure the cultural edicts will wait for you," Sokka interrupts. "For now, I think you need to get out of the Upper Ring for once to see the city you rule and what the war has done to it."

"I… I've never even left the palace in my life," Kuei admits, twisting a large jadeite ring on his finger sheepishly. "No Earth King in recent memory has."

"Well, you'll be the first, and I daresay you might even enjoy it," Toph says, having once been the sheltered youth of the nobility, cherished, protected, caged. "We can even ride a sky bison to see the Outer Wall, if you like."

And that is how Sokka and Toph end up borrowing Appa for a day to take the Earth King on a life-changing (read: culture-shock inducing) fieldtrip. They ask forgiveness rather than permission, but Aang doesn't mind.

Secondly, Long Shu steps down as head of the Dai Li, and the bureau is dismantled, its members reassigned to different ministries. Zuko makes some noises about _reparations for war crimes, _but Lu Ten makes louder noises about _following orders _and _indoctrinated from an early age _and _seen the error of her ways, _and Zuko finally backs down.

A major rehaul of the city's ministries of war, public works, justice, and revenue is in order, and Zuko and Lu Ten do their best to shepherd the fledgling king through the process. More experienced members of the White Lotus step in as needed, but this effort must be spearheaded by Kuei himself, if he is to get his own ministers to take him seriously. To call his task overwhelming is a massive understatement: Ba Sing Se's many issues, the huge imbalance in distribution of wealth, lack of control over outer provinces, devastation of the Agrarian Zone, and continued vulnerability to outside forces remain prominent even though the threat of Sozin's comet has passed. He applies himself to the work earnestly if a little naively, and bit by bit, things take a turn for the better.

.

.

It begins with a promise, for truth, for justice, for change. No more is it said, "There is no war in Ba Sing Se."

"The Hundred Year War is over. The war of the next hundred years has just begun," Zuko announces at a packed market square in the Lower Ring one week after the battle. The onlookers murmur with disquietude, not thrilled with the prospect of more conflict.

"This war is to be fought against famine, against poverty, against injustice and colonization, against unfair taxation and corruption at all levels of the government. As the Avatar, I am invested in your future, and the future of the world. I vow to restore this chaotic world into peace and balance, but I cannot do it alone."

He turns to look back at the figure behind him on the podium, pausing for dramatic effect—Toph had done a lot of coaching with him on his speechmaking skills. It's a work in progress.

"Many of you may have heard of the Azure Dragon of the East, a ray of hope amid the endless darkness of war, a sliver of peace and joy where only despair once reigned. He is with us today when he was once thought lost."

Lu Ten takes his place beside Zuko, looking out over the sea of people, and it is as if he was never gone. The murmur of the crowd bubbles and crests, a different tone overlying their whispers.

"Isn't that—" "I know him!" "He's … no, it can't be…"

"Mushi!"

The hubbub is broken by a clear, bright voice, and Lu Ten remembers Jin with aching fondness even as he starts to connect many faces in the crowd that he knew in his past identity of Mushi. They are not so far from Pao's Teashop where he worked for so many years, and ah, there's the girl who used to wait on him at Kang's Noodles, and the boy who sold musical instruments on Dengjia Street. There's the old judge who used to loiter over a pot of pu-erh all afternoon, and a woman whom Lu Ten's sure he gave alms to, now brightly dressed with a market basket full of vegetables slung over her shoulder.

In the oddest sense, he is at home here, a home away from home in the most unlikely of places. Far to the left, in the front row, he spies Jet (who really should not be up and about after suffering substantial pulmonary contusions from his confrontation with Mongke, but… oh well) waving at him, Hanxin standing behind his wheelchair and looking down in serene contemplation. His heart swells with joy, tender affection leaking from his pores and oh gods, he needs to get his feelings under control if he wants to address the people without sounding like a sappy idiot. _Focus, Lu Ten. _

.

.

It begins with memories. On the opposite end of the square, Long Shu watches Lu Ten declare a new beginning. She is no longer dressed in the dark green robes of the Dai Li, and her hair is tied loosely, released from its austere loops. Beside her stands the woman who knows herself as Joo Dee.

"Shu-_er, _who is he?"

"He is Prince Lu Ten of the Fire Nation, the Azure Dragon of the East." _And the reason you lost your memory in the first place._

"Lu Ten?" She ponders this, puzzled, teetering on the verge of some revelation. "The name sounds almost familiar."

She's heard that voice before, but it was different. When she first heard it, it was cracked and spent, breaking from a thousand torments. She's seen his face before, contorted in pain, stretched wide in a manic approximation of glee. She knows him, but she cannot _know _him.

"Why do we fight?" Lu Ten asks the crowd at large. He answers himself, "For our homes, for our families, for all those we hold dear. For the generations who come after us to have a chance at a peaceful life."

She puzzles it over, absently running her hand over the nape of her neck, up to the hairpiece that Shu-_er _had given her a few years ago. It is an artistic piece of jade cut in the shape of a flower with small, white petals and leaves like butterfly wings. Inspired, she tugs it from her hair and looks at it closely. Suddenly, deep inside, she _knows. _

_This does not belong to me. _

She looks over at Shu-_er _and frowns. "Shu-_er, _why are _you_ wearing _my _jennamite hairpiece?"

Long Shu turns, her visage replete with vulnerability and shock. She watches Joo Dee shed a lifetime's worth of false memories and shatter into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.

Long Niu remembers her sister at last.

* * *

Team Avatar and associates spend over a month recuperating and idling in Ba Sing Se before preparing to return to their respective homes. _Idling _perhaps is not the best word, as they do carry out select duties contributing to the city's recovery, but right now, in the present, exact moment, they are willfully, joyously _idling._

Iroh has them set up in a tastefully comfortable villa on the eastern edge of the Upper Ring. Today doesn't feel like it's the height of summer; it's pleasantly warm enough to sit outside under a sprawling, shady pavilion. The light breeze that picks up gradually makes it feel just right for a cup of tea, Lu Ten decides.

At the pai sho table, Sokka plays Hanxin at snail's pace, with frequent pauses as he exaggeratedly scrutinizes the board for advantages, Toph lingering at his side and sometimes shifting stones in his favor. Not to be outdone, Jet sits next to Hanxin, subtle hand gestures close to his chest as he tries to advise him using the sign language they have been expanding. Sokka complains, of course, but he hardly has a leg to stand on given Toph's sneaky favoritism. Hanxin smiles at their bickering and quietly accepts some tea from his love, fingers lingering over each other around the smooth clay cup.

In the garden, the mournful murmur of the tsungi horn drifts between boughs of apple blossoms, accompanied by the plink-plink-plonk of steel strings.

"What is that horrific noise assaulting my ears?" Azula demands, nestled cozily on a swinging couch in the shade. It's the first day she's been allowed to join them outside with a clean bill of health, her wounds completely healed. Miao lies stretched out on the seat next to her, approximating the size and shape of a contentedly purring loaf of bread.

Aang stops playing long enough to call back, "Sorry, I know I'm a bit out of practice. Zuko's been coaching me, but I've got room to improve."

"No, not _you; _I meant that rusty string-plucking sound," she clarifies irritably.

"I'm a beginner, for crying out loud; it'll be a while before anything I play sounds presentable." Katara bends over the book she's dug up from the imperial library on water-zither playing, an ancient collaborative technique of Water Tribe and Earthen musical origins. Instead of her fingers, she uses drops of water controlled by her bending to manipulate the strings, her unrefined skills resulting in the sound that is so offensive to Azula's ears.

"If you want me to improve faster, get over here and teach me," she challenges.

Azula eyes the droplets dancing over the strings and thinks better of it. Katara's therapeutic water massages over the past few weeks have been closer to agony than relaxing in nature, and she has no doubt that this invitation is a trap to pelt her with more water attacks as soon as she drifts within range.

"Hmph. I don't have time for such nonsense." She turns back to her book, supremely disinterested.

Lu Ten wanders over, dispensing tea to Katara and Aang as he goes. "You know you shouldn't drink it while it's still so hot," he says, handing Azula a cup. "Best medical practices and all that."

Azula maintains belligerent eye contact as she lifts her tea to her mouth and breathes it back to boiling point with firebending, in frank defiance of _best medical practices. _

He knows defeat when he sees it. He leans over and scratches Miao on the head, the cat mewing softly at his touch. "Miao, please try to convince her, for my sake," he begs.

Azula rolls her eyes as he walks off to find more people without tea. As soon as he turns his back, she spits out her mouthful, lips burning, and sets the tea aside to cool down by itself.

It's nice to be peacefully at ease here, she realizes. Reading a book with no expectation of needing to use its contents for self-preservation. Harmlessly needling the people around her with mild gripes and grumbles, a cat with blunt-tipped claws (much like the cat currently trying to encroach on her lap. She crosses her legs and dislodges it, smirking as it meows in betrayal). Drinking some calming tea and actually savoring it, though she will never admit this to what she now thinks of as the "tea side" of the family: Uncle, Lu Ten, and Zuko.

The only thing that would make it even better, she reflects, is if certain other people were here. She hasn't allowed herself to think about them recently, but now that she's not living in constant fear of death, she can indulge her thoughts.

Little does Azula know that at this moment, a young doctress from far west of here has entered the city under the pretext of seeking work in the overstretched infirmaries. She has heard tales far and wide of someone called the Azure Dragon saving the world from Sozin's comet. She is not really sure who this person is, but she does know that she once loved a surly firebender who could make blue flames and left her abruptly on the eve of the world's end. She thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is where she will reunite with her love.

Even now, a green-eyed sprightly earthbender dithers about, wondering if it would be rude to cross into the Upper Ring and knock on the door to the Avatar's residence asking for his sister. They have had their differences, but maybe, just maybe, all this time will have given them the chance to rethink things. Amid his dithering, he will take a break at a dinghy little teashop in the Lower Ring run by a flustered man named Pao. It's packed to bursting with dozens of patrons all wanting to see someone called Mushi, whom Pao claims doesn't work here anymore. With nowhere else to sit, he will share a table with a kindly young woman with cherry red lips and a smile in her warm eyes. He will think about how different this one and that one are, and they will shyly avoid each other's eyes as strangers forced together do.

And then, she will turn her head to call for more tea, and he will see the familiar blue peony hairpin at the base of her long braid.

.

.

Lu Ten tallies up his many charges like a frazzled nursery attendant and comes out one short. Where is Zuko?

On the roof, it transpires, and Lu Ten bounds up there, a cup of tea in each hand without spilling a drop. He sets one down in front of Zuko, who sits cross-legged, a softly meditative look on his face. He stirs at the clink of the cup on cold tiles.

"Thank you."

Lu Ten sits down next to him. "Heavy thoughts?"

"Not as such, no." Zuko takes his cup in hand without drinking, staring contemplatively at the thousands of houses stretching across the horizon. "Just thinking about… everything. How everything will change again now that we've accomplished what we were working for all along."

He breathes in the mist of the tea, humid and soothing, and exhales, blowing the steam out in a diffuse cloud. He reflects on the all-encompassing one and the oneness of all.

That billow of steam will evaporate, traveling through the atmosphere, those same water molecules falling as raindrops all over the earth. They could go anywhere, just as Zuko and his companions may be scattered to all corners of the world. He knows that Toph is interested in staying in Ba Sing Se, working with the Grand Secretariat to restructure the various ministries and the role of earthbenders versus nonbenders in the city's security. He knows that Jet wants to go with Long Shu and Long Niu back to the far-flung territories of the Earth Kingdom to begin rebuilding villages that have seen better days.

He takes a long sip, more steam rising to the surface, and watches it dissipate. Maybe some of it will reach storm clouds at the South Pole and fall as snow over Sokka and Katara as they seek to rejuvenate the Water Tribes and consolidate their power. Maybe some of it will rain down on Chin Village, where Aang longs to go home and pay his respects to his mother. The Air Temples need renovating as well, and Zuko will probably split his time between helping Aang and liaising with the Fire Lord and various colonial municipalities in the western Earth Kingdom that now occupy an uncomfortable political status.

And maybe in the end, he'll sit with Lu Ten and Hanxin and Azula back home in the palace that no longer holds the memories of the damned, sharing another pot of tea brewed from the steam that drifted away from him today. After all, all is one and one is all.

"Everything changes, constantly, without end," Lu Ten says, circling back to a conversation they've had more than once. "But your heart, the goodness and love that's in your heart, will not change, and that's all that matters."

Side by side, they watch the sunset over the city, listen to the murmur of their friends below, feel the warmth and peace of calming tea within. Around them, the wind rises.

* * *

**A/N**: Damn, that's it.

When I first had the brainchild for Avatar Zuko (April 2016) and started posting (May 2016), I did not expect it to blossom into the behemoth of today. I had an outline that didn't encompass much beyond the first couple chapters of _time crawls on, _and a vague idea of what would happen in the very end. Between then and now, I applied to medical school, moved to a new city, made new friends, finished the first three years, and am now beginning the application to residency programs (more soul-crushing to do). There were times when I thought I would never finish it, and even more times when I thought it wouldn't be worth finishing anyways because no one would read it.

I stuck with it, though, even when it seemed like the Zukaang tag on Tumblr was totally dead, and A:tla as a fandom only slightly more alive. It's partly due to my own stubbornness and a secretly rebellious attitude to my profession / the world as a whole that tells us that frivolous things like creative writing and fanfiction are worthless to society. But you are here, reading this, so I know that you must not agree. And therefore you and many others besides were also responsible for bringing this series to fruition. I cannot thank you enough for that. Writing is a very lonely task, but your kudos, comments, and reactions made it less so.

If you've been following for a long time, you'll know how much time and energy I have put into this over the years, so it's very difficult to put down now. I know that very few of my regulars from the early books are still around, and maybe some are still there but less vocal, and that is alright :) * waves * I love you all, and I miss you, but I'm grateful for your support when I needed it the most.

If you've just started reading, kudos for making it to the end! Many people watched the series for the first time this summer, and for me, it's a pleasure to witness reactions to what is sometimes a new fan's first A:tla AU 3 Your newfound enthusiasm and creativity brought life to the fandom, and I'm glad you are here.

Anyways, my Oscar speech has gone past the time limit by now :D so I will quickly explain my plans for the series. There are some epilogues in the works. One is LuXin 18+ content in the aftermath of the battle, which has been complete for a while. That will be posted within a week. Below is a list of ideas I am contemplating, in descending order of likelihood of actually being written. You're welcome to comment with other ideas but without guarantee of being written :)

Luxin wedding and wedding night

Azula/Haru/Song

General Zukaang domesticity

Guru Aang and what happens with the Air Nation

Sokka doing badass White Lotus stuff

Zuko, Lu Ten, and Azula go on a field trip to find Ursa

I'm marking this series as officially complete at this point so that I can say goodbye now without pressure to finish the epilogues, and so that people who have been waiting until it's finished can start reading. I suppose some people may find this disingenuous as it's not _"complete" _complete, but the epilogues are only intended to tie up minor unfinished threads and don't contain much plot.

If you still want to read them, subscribe to this series, because I will post them as additional chapters after this one (therefore, the chapter count will increase past 18). The list is subject to change and has no fixed schedule, so I might write all of them, or I might not write any of them. I'm a bit (okay, a lot) stressed about applications, career prospects, life, so who knows when I will get to writing more.

You can always find me on Tumblr as the-cloud-whisperer! I'm happy to talk about whatever any time. Again, you all are the best readers, and I will love you forever even if our paths don't cross again.

And of course I didn't forget; the writing notes for this chapter are posted here. These have to do with medical bloodbending, alternatives I considered for Ozai's endgame, Azula's happy ending, various political things.

archiveofourown dot org/works/7019827/chapters/61511623

Yours truly,

Cloud

Date: 31 July 2020


	19. always ascending, forever faithful

**A/N: **Avatar Zuko - the gift that keeps on giving! :) This is the first and only epilogue I have written so far. Actually, most of this scene was written during the second week of March 2019 (last year, before the pandemic), between the time I took the first board exam and then went on vacation to Italy. It seems like eons ago but it's only been a year, somehow.

* * *

**LU TEN**

He wakes slowly, opening his eyes without much difficulty—it's still night, then, the lamps just starting to burn low. He feels the tread of gentle fingers across his face, the ridge of his brow, the swell of his cheek, the dip of his upper lip and fullness of the lower. Hanxin gazes down at him, and that must be what woke him—the absence of his lover lying next to him.

His fingers continue to wander, searching, or rather… reassuring himself, but presently he notices Lu Ten is awake, and a flicker of guilt flashes across his expression.

"Don't be sorry for waking me, my heart." Lu Ten reaches up to clasp the hand resting against his cheek tight. "If you're awake, I want to be awake with you. I never want to spend a moment without you."

A slight spread of the fingers within his grasp, and Lu Ten relinquishes his grip. Hanxin looks down at his hands in his lap, away from Lu Ten, as if embarrassed to be caught.

"It's so strange—everything from the moment Koh took my face to the moment you freed me with your song, took my hand and led me home… I don't know what happened. It's like there's a gaping hole in my memory."

And there it is again: Hanxin's misery, the grief of being left behind leaking from every tense muscle, ribs straining to hold back soul-deep sobs of fear, of losing Lu Ten _yet again—_

His desperation makes him clumsy, and he all but shoves himself into Hanxin's embrace. "My love… I'm so sorry. I'm always running off on my own, losing my head… you're the one who has to stay behind and hold onto my memories for me. It's not fair to you. I'm sorry, love. I won't leave you again," he reassures.

They cling to each other, a lifeline on the high seas of their turbulent emotions, adrift but not astray. As Hanxin shrugs out of his embrace, he takes Lu Ten's right hand in his own, tracing words with one finger in the span of his palm. Lu Ten reads them upside down, character by character, his heart breaking as he registers Hanxin's pain.

— Tell me the truth. If I got my voice back, would you love me more? —

"No. You are not your voice, Hanxin." He clasps Hanxin's other hand in his own, fingers interlaced, solemnly swearing himself to the truth. "When you made the decision to follow me beyond the ends of the earth, you didn't have your voice. You only had your faith, in yourself, in me, in the capacity of our love to endure even the separation of different worlds."

He smiles, tracing the character for 'faith', Hanxin's namesake, on the back of his hand where he will see it always, echoing his words to his love long before they swore themselves to each other. "I have always thought it describes you perfectly."

* * *

**HANXIN**

Lu Ten's adulation is a bountiful whisper in his ear, girded with the promise of joy and security and years of sharing each other to come. Hanxin shivers at the enormity of it all and melts into his kisses.

Everything will be alright. It sinks in then, between Lu Ten's deepening kisses and murmurs of endearment, that everything really has come around for the better. The magnitude of all the trials they have suffered, alone and together, is only a fraction of the bliss that will consummate their lives hereafter.

_Lu Ten… you are _so _perfect. So mine. And I yours. _Hands grip his hips with increasing strength as if to reinforce that, and he wants… _oh, _he wants everything Lu Ten will give him. He can afford to want now.

With some difficulty, he extracts himself from a puzzled Lu Ten, standing with the slightest tremor in his gait induced by the beginnings of their passion. _May as well get a move on with things. _He shucks his pants, relishing Lu Ten's greedy gaze on him as he reclines, desirous and anticipating a night well-spent.

What he does not expect is for Hanxin to retrieve the little glazed pot Iroh sent over earlier and shyly press it into his hands. He opens it, revealing a portion of translucent, watery gel. "You want me to…?"

Hanxin does want him to. They are creatures of habit, and over time, their trysts do tend to involve Lu Ten being on the receiving end. Penetration doesn't really do much for Hanxin ("Prostate the size of a chestnut and about as responsive," to quote Lu Ten the few times they'd tried). Meanwhile it does everything for Lu Ten, and they both crave the way he unravels when taken so willfully by his love. In any case, that is the usual state of affairs.

But tonight, Hanxin wants to forget about that, about their habits, about nearly losing Lu Ten, about everything but the here and now. So he patiently waits for his dumbstruck lover to come to his senses.

* * *

**LU TEN**

No, he's not mentally psyching himself up to fuck his boyfriend; he can do better than that. He is considering how to optimize this opportunity to make it as good as possible for Hanxin, because if nothing else, he is an expert at loving this beautiful individual.

Hanxin seems impatient (nervous?) with his ponderous processing rate and flips over onto his front, as if to signal, _hurry up, we don't have all night._

"But we do, dearest butterfly." Lu Ten knows the effects terms of endearment have on Hanxin. There will be a gentle flush coloring his ears red within moments. "We have all night, and the rest of our lives."

He puts down the pot of lube, struck with inspiration. As quaint as it sounds, he wants this to be special for Hanxin, who has always been his unwavering support, who has always put Lu Ten before himself. He kneels quietly behind Hanxin. "Lift up for me?"

Hanxin does, and Lu Ten strokes a contemplative hand down his flank, a sensual shiver dancing through his spine. He drops a methodical string of kisses down his back until he reaches his goal, spreads his cheeks apart (not enough cushioning for a decent hold, need to rectify that forthwith), and takes a deliberate taste of the flesh within.

"Ah! - " Hanxin jerks in surprise, lifting his head from his folded arms and staring at Lu Ten. There is no reprieve to come, though, and Lu Ten persists, laying long, lasciviously wet strokes across that tiny pucker as it tightens and relaxes in turns.

It is a delightful change of scenery, seeing Hanxin so undone for once. Under the onslaught of Lu Ten's tongue, he gasps and writhes, unsure if he wants to retreat or beg for more. At one point, he surges up onto his hands and knees, pushing back against Lu Ten, craving more contact, only to collapse back down, arms trembling too violently to support himself.

_Beautiful. _Lu Ten can give no voice to his thoughts, occupied as he is, but he imparts what he can through broad caresses down from Hanxin's waist to his thighs and back. _Your voice… I am defenseless. _Even without his speech, those moans and heavy breaths go to Lu Ten's head like aged wine, and to his stiffening cock like a very potent cup of ginseng tea.

A few final whimsical swirls around Hanxin's overstimulated rim, and he presses butterfly kisses to each buttock as he lowers himself even more in his quest for unexplored horizons.

"I love you." He cannot say it enough. "_I love you." _

He dips lower and probes the swell of Hanxin's sac with his tongue, then with utmost care, sucks at one testicle, savoring the feeling of having his love's most delicate parts in his mouth. It's deliriously arousing, and he feels himself grow still harder. They could stand to move along, but he lingers, too enamored of Hanxin's moans and helpless twitches to stop.

"You taste lovely, my heart. So, so good." Lu Ten traces the slight cleft between his balls from front to back, moistening his tongue until the delicate fuzz there is damp and glistening.

He does not expect Hanxin to start cracking up at this, and he rewinds his words mentally. "I mean it," he protests, even as his lover moves to muffle his giggles in his hands. "You taste… _nice. _We had a bath today, after all. I'm not lying."

He's not; Hanxin tastes like sweat and musk and nothing unpleasant, and Lu Ten thinks he ought to know. He supposes it is a bit silly to say it so unironically.

"You're not doing wonders for my ego, you know." He pretends to be cross with Hanxin as he continues to laugh, not truly irritated with his love. If Hanxin feels relaxed enough during sex to laugh at him so unabashedly, it can only be a good thing. Lu Ten would willingly say all manner of ludicrous things to hear him in a fit of unrestrained, joyful laughter. _There is nothing I want more than for you to be happy._

"Alright, alright," he grumbles as Hanxin subsides into deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. "I'll give you something to laugh about."

He fumbles a bit with his pants, wanting everything to be out of the way as they tip closer to the edge. The lube that his father sent along (_massage oil_, he corrects himself doggedly) is clear and oddly cool, a clean, floral smell pouring onto his fingertips as he scoops up a dollop.

"You're sure, Hanxin?" He wants to give Hanxin everything his heart desires. Even though it's harder now for him to communicate them, Lu Ten will stop at nothing to make sure his needs are met.

"Mm." He nods.

Okay. Lu Ten sucks in a long breath. Okay.

One knuckle, then two. One finger, then another. A wordless shudder and a deep inhale, Hanxin bracing himself on his arms as his walls clench around the fingers pushing farther into him.

"Nnnn…"

Fuck, Lu Ten's not sure how long _he _can last at this rate. He scissors his fingers a little, thrusting them in and out minutely until he estimates Hanxin's ready for a third.

He reaches around, Hanxin obligingly tilting his hips to give him access, and _oh, _he is achingly aroused, so hard and leaking, Lu Ten's own cock throbs in sympathy. Enough.

"Nn… ahhh…"

That's enough encouragement. He slicks himself up, the cold lube doing nothing to dampen his mood—quite the opposite. He lingers a moment at the entrance, the tip of his cock brushing the rim, teasing him, waiting for an invitation which Hanxin wantonly extends, pushing his hips back towards Lu Ten's breaching cock, slowly sliding in until he can go no farther.

"Hanxin… ahh…"

Fuck. _Fuck_… he forces himself to focus on the other's reactions. So far, so good. The way his body yields for Lu Ten is overwhelming, and he finds himself sprawled nearly chest-to-back against Hanxin.

"Please, my love," he whispers, breathless.

A heated, almost desperate gaze over the shoulder is all he needs. Their union is complete, their mutual desire spiking ever higher. Every muscle in Hanxin's body beneath his hands is taut with repressed need.

"Fuck… oh, oh Hanxin." He is almost beyond words but not far enough gone to miss how those strong shoulders are quaking, head bowed low. "Hanxin?" He slows the rhythm of his hips, then stops altogether. "Are you… does it hurt?"

Hanxin resolutely shakes his head no, but Lu Ten has to be sure. He starts to withdraw, only for Hanxin to reach one arm back, holding him fast. He catches that arm in motion. They need to communicate.

"Up, up now, love," he coaxes, guiding Hanxin up onto his knees, seated in his lap (and on his cock still, but that can wait). "Are you okay?"

Hanxin nods, and Lu Ten pauses, puzzled. "Then what's wrong? I can't make things better for you if I don't know what's wrong."

Hanxin takes Lu Ten's left hand from his waist and turns it face up, drawing deliberate characters on the belly of his forearm. — I miss you. —

"…miss me? But… I'm right here," he begins, puzzled, but already Hanxin is shaking his head self-deprecatingly, fingers tracing his clarifying answer on Lu Ten's arm.

— Faceless. Irrational. —

So are many of their fears, and this one at least is real. "Do you want to turn around so you can see me? Or do you want to stop?"

Negative on both counts. Now Lu Ten is really stymied. He understands Hanxin's fear, having experienced it himself. After nightmares, he is sometimes afraid to open his eyes for fear of seeing his dream's horrors superimposed on the real world, inescapable even in waking. However, if seeing Lu Ten's face and _not _seeing it both leave Hanxin in agony, then he truly does not know what to do.

_Think, _he tells himself sternly. _For Hanxin._

He rubs absent circles on Hanxin's chest, his belly, nosing quietly at his nape even as he ponders, and Hanxin relaxes into him a little, his body yielding peacefully, comfortably, like they were meant to fit together thus.

They were. _We have._

"My love," he murmurs. "Close your eyes."

Hanxin bows his head without fanfare, and Lu Ten takes that to mean that his eyes are closed now. With studied deliberation, almost ritual, he brings one hand up to firmly cover Hanxin's eyes.

* * *

**HANXIN**

He is blind again, he is safe again, and the conscious parts of him that are not in a paroxysm of celebration instead marvel at how perfectly Lu Ten is suited to him, to saving and being saved by him in turn, to deciphering his needs and partnering him for the rest of their blessed lives.

"Do you want to keep going?"

It should be strange to want it so soon after he's just been on the verge of a nightmare-laden meltdown. More than ever, though, he knows what is real and what is not. The pleasant slip of soft sheets under his knees; the relaxed rhythm of tidal breathing, his own and Lu Ten's; the heat of Lu Ten's hand over his eyes, reminding him that his lover is here, and healthy, and whole, even without seeing him. The slightly sticky tread of their sweat-doused skin against each other; the thud of his quickening heart against his ribs; the promising shift of Lu Ten's cock lodged within him, arousal not yet fully waned. _Yes._

He turns, Lu Ten's hands slipping from his eyes, but that doesn't matter now that he can look upon his lover's unbroken face without fear of seeing anything else. He cranes his head back, one arm snaking around to capture Lu Ten's lips in a heated kiss.

"Mmph!" Lu Ten is taken by surprise at his ardor, it seems, and wriggles away before Hanxin has had his fill. "Stop and think, if you please, about where my tongue has just been?"

Hanxin rolls his eyes. _Up my ass, and you can rest assured it _did _please._

Lu Ten sighs, knowing he's not going to make much headway against his suddenly lust-addled lover. "Fine, fine. But we'll both have to rinse out our mouths after this."

_After? _So premature. They haven't even begun.

Lu Ten gets the message as Hanxin grinds his hips down onto his stationary cock, impatient. He braces himself, lifting Hanxin a little from his lap, and begins a litany of luxurious thrusts designed to drive him insane.

It's glorious. Hanxin would not call himself spiritual by any means, but if he had to name his life's most transcendental experiences, this would be near the top of the list. Lu Ten's pace reaches an earnest holding pattern, gradually pushing them towards climax, but slow enough to savor. Gods, he's drowning in Lu Ten, in his warmth and vitality, life and love. Lu Ten plants kisses wherever he can, his neck, his back, his shoulders, hands hungrily traversing the plane of his front in search of more ways to drive him to pleasurable madness.

One finger grazes a nipple in passing, eliciting a soft hiss. It returns, indolent and idling at that center of pleasure, rubbing and worrying at his nipple in time to Lu Ten's thrusts, and Hanxin lets escape a low moan, helpless with sensation.

"Yes, that's it, love. Let me hear you." A playful tug of teeth at his ear lobe, another attack at the opposite nipple, rendering him dizzy with stimulation and adoration and everything that's too much yet not enough—he needs more of Lu Ten. He does not think one lifetime will be enough for them.

_Fuck, _he thinks dimly, arching his back, stretching one arm to curl around Lu Ten's neck, pulling them closer. He wishes more than anything that he could tell his lover how good this feels. How he's missed this. How he wants this forever. But Lu Ten understands without him saying anything. It's in the way he tightens his grip on Hanxin's waist, quickens his pace, lays down harsher nips and bites on his skin—they are almost there, so close.

"Touch yourself, Hanxin," Lu Ten gasps by his ear. "Do it, I want to see."

He does, finally taking his cock in hand, and _oh, fuck, how am I supposed to keep from going straight for the finish. _He forces himself to go slow, feeling a thin stream of pre-come leaking from his arousal, slicking up the rest of his length. _Fuck. Please… Lu Ten…_

Lu Ten's hand joins his, fisting his cock furiously while fucking into him at a relentless pace, and this is it. He is there, he cannot wait—

"Come on, come, Hanxin. I want you to."

A ragged breath, a burst of light behind his eyes, a silent scream as he shudders through his release. Lu Ten's thrusts become more and more stilted until he, too, surrenders to his climax. The sensation of being filled is strange but at the same time pleasingly visceral. Hanxin is vaguely aware of Lu Ten pulling out and laying him on his side, arranging his jellylike limbs into a comfortable position. He drowses.

When he comes to, Lu Ten is dabbing around his much-exerted entrance with cool, moist cloths, going on to sponge down the rest of his nether regions with that same tender care. "Rinse and spit." He holds out a small bowl of water to Hanxin, who does as he's told. Cleanliness is godliness, or so he's heard.

He watches as Lu Ten steps lightly around the tent, dousing candles, picking up discarded clothes, doing all the myriad things that Hanxin usually does in preparation for sleep. Naked and so lovely, it's not difficult to mistake him for a young god, elated with the raw beauty of the world and his own omnipotence, not yet jaded by the many hurts and tragedies of cruel life.

Lu Ten returns to lie beside him, casting a curious glance at his thoughtful gaze. He fusses with the pillows and blankets for a bit, then engulfs Hanxin in a sleepy embrace.

"I love you," he mumbles. "Will you ever get tired of me saying that?"

Hanxin shakes his head, his answer evident from the direction his chin grazes the top of Lu Ten's head where it rests. _Never._

"Good, because I'm going to say it whenever I can. In the morning when we wake up, during breakfast, after morning court, in the bathtub, dinner with my father; actually, dinner with Zuko and Aang, we need to be good role models for them… in bed, obviously, and anytime I see you unexpectedly, oh, and at our wedding, too…"

Hanxin smiles, tugging his fingers through Lu Ten's tangled hair. Once upon a time, he would hold Lu Ten as he drifts off into peaceful dreams that could never come true, but no more. Their joint future has been realized. They now face the reality of their hereafter, founded on their indomitable love and loyalty to each other.

Always ascending, forever faithful.

* * *

**A/N: **Always ascending, forever faithful :) "ascending" for Lu Ten's "téng; 騰", and "faithful" for Hanxin's "xìn; 信". It's also something of an inside joke with myself: Always Ascending is the name of an album by one of my favorite bands, Franz Ferdinand—okay, that has nothing to do with LuXin at all, and frankly I don't even remember any songs on that album :3

Thank you for reading! :) I love LuXin so much, I'll probably write more of their happily married lives, but later, at some unspecified date in the future.


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